by Christopher Raley


In the evening the waves had shrunk down

and, like a dog’s tongue, lapped in troubled sleep.

The wind died cold leaving fingers of sand

tracing the pavement to where it had blown.


A car left the pub and followed the road

up and over the knuckle of the cape.

It was quiet again between absorbing deep

and hotel balcony as sound stage.


I listened for the car but the forest

had taken it.  I listened both empty

and receiving.  A woman’s voice clipped short,

fragment chord from the bar, these are what I heard


and memory of soft movement behind,

straightening of cloth, final click of strap.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s