Barren Reach
A wee poem
Lying between the margin and the salt-rime,
A gather of clouds, marbled grey.
Here history was wrought,
The will of man played out,
Each step a turning point.
And now? What does this barren reach expect?
A restful peace – a century of sleep before it’s done?
© e-griff 2023
Views: 1601
Is it ever going to be ‘done’….. I like this a lot John, Hastings I presume?
I never base images on real places. This is anywhere that fits.
Thanks for reading and commenting
I liked the tight metering of the middle three lines; they give the poem a feeling of action and momentum. The reflectiveness of the last two lines nicely anticipates the reader’s as the pace is slowed in the concluding questions. A nice, evocative little piece. Shywolf
Thank you.
This was one of those times I was lying in bed early morning and composed most of it in my head, I guess they call it ‘inspiration’
I simply enjoyed the write without feeling the need to analyse it.
Ah, that’s how it was written…