Old Nights
Was it incubus or succubus who – groggy, doe-eyed –
walked me through the fine rain, sleeping?
Older now, still wet from then, though there’s drying
round the margins, I never have known when
the past will come again, arms outstretched, sleepy
sensual, knowing nothing’s really changed
and that, anyway, there’s always time when there’s
only time, replayed and replayed.
Stranded
Broken folk by the shore, remembering
the narrow path that led them there
from all that went before.
Remembering, among weed strands
and empty shells, among the restlessness
of water and patience of the sand.
Beneath unsettled cloud and seagulls’
haunting cry, remembering when
they came to the waves, and why.
Broken folk searching, under silent cliffs.
Scouring the tideline and breakers’ ragged drift,
picking through the time.
Poring over conclusions where four worlds start
– water, land, light and air –
haltering each heart.
Broken folk faltering, with nowhere left to go.
With nothing more than the relic shore
of remembering’s ebb and flow.
Craig Dobson has had poems published The North, The Rialto, The London Magazine, Poetry Ireland Review, Magma, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Southword, The Poetry Daily Website and Agenda. He has work forthcoming in THINK, Poetry Salzburg Review and The Dark Horse. He lives and works in the UK.