AT DOUGLAS HALL
Twice daily the tides are here, sometimes
Breenging shoreward like an army
Of small, mad angry locals,
At others, creeping in on tourist feet.
They are their own beginnings & endings,
Stories that tell themselves, borderline ballads
Of loss & finding, war cries or sobs
Or occasional lullabies, all midnight
And moonlight, tender vessels of tiny waves
Bringing shallow white words & drifting
Tributes ashore, washed up at
The very end & very start of it.
Stuart A. Paterson
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