Stuck in a deep hole
I can’t carve your name
In sand as dry as a desert.
The hole has swallowed my sadness,
And now I’m stuck.
Half way up the beach,
Waiting for the tide to return.
And wash me out
Of this dark and
Overwhelmingly bleak place.
Taking tiny pleasures
From the stillness
Of conceited isolation.
© Ester Spears
Tesco's bag
Posted in: Poetry, The Essential Contentment of Futile Wanderings
Posted on February 9, 2011
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