Old Nights and Other Poems

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.