The Note
The upturned boat on the beach
lay idling unaware of the waves.
Unintroduced in fact, for it was
still a virgin to the music,
the rhythms, the roguish charms
the waves could conjure.
It was still to know of the fierce
wanderlust that they could evoke;
as was it ignorant of the indifferent
fickleness they could inflict without
a splash of surf or care when
they would flirt with the winds.
All the boat knew of was the sun
on its back and spray misting its side;
sands underneath which would no longer
be scratched and clutched impassioned
by her innocent palms and fingers and
scattered by the pure ardour of his love.
Theirs was a village trapped in history,
strangled by viscous slipknots of dogma.
Theirs was a people of stagnant time,
dying of the rot of their own glassy pride.
Theirs was a love which was not sanctioned,
A suicide note of its own the day it was born.
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