Harbourside

Blown from busy parks he’s come -

sheathed in crumpled rags – in skin

seasoned by the salt and sun -

Come to sit,

mincing bread in those calloused hands,

to cast the crumbs

to a congregation of silver gulls

which parasitic and competitive

move in a constant emotional state

about his feet.

All is gone,

the faces, friends,

the long years,

out on the deep, on the dark sea

they dance in the fading evening light.

As the sun turns and the stars spin

he’s come to sit

in the roaring emptiness of space

face to face

with all that was,

with what will be,

with his bottle-full of memories

to drink the darkness,

to drink it down and deep.