Walking lines of bottle green and grey
and times where young people play
calling from memory distant lands
and far horizons in our smitten hands
on seeping gunwale and weeping mast
all seeking opportunity never let past.
Open ports rise from the burial tomb
of blackness in our once bright room
and the promise of freedom striven
like manna on wet hearthrug given.
Running fox and hunting hound gambol
beyond the ken of men who’ll gamble
with reality while selling my boot lace
to tie me fast to masts for saving face.
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Photo Credit: Malek Montag, 2005