Gloucester

This seascape's now more cataract
of tired eyes—swept as it was by
too many winds, too many clouds
that are no longer.

Sails rise, fail.

It's time, then, for the children
to take over. Strange how they
just can't lie.

We, on the other hand, who came
here to forget, watch nameless
seabirds dive—soar—
dive, finding nothing.

Sails rise once again, fail.

It's certain then: anyone
could see that a child
would draw me—

even my own—as an outline.

Copyright © 2008 Ann Snodgrass All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission