Photo: Raymond Lofthouse
No man is an island: I’ve often heard people say,
though you and I have both been, in our own way.
Cut off for such a time, the incessant backwash
eroding us to dust, only our edge holding it at bay.
Suffering silent storms, harbouring hopes of calm,
first sightings awakened stirrings, formed a causeway.
Between two solitary beings, a bridge of dreams
enabled us to cross, each to each other, night or day.
We made atolls of hotel rooms in city backwaters,
intrepid, climbed aboard our tub and sailed away.
Winching linen sheets, we watched them billowing,
gave them free rein, allowed our dreamscapes play.
Curtains drawn, becalmed, marooned by carpet seas,
we fed from breakfast trays, barely saw the light of day.
Dazed, metamorphosed, we emerged as new, knew
that neither time nor distance could our love assay.
From the island of your birth you look across the sea
to me, in winter England, fog bound, giving you leeway.
At my kitchen island I write poetry, pine and keen, wish
to God that I believed, for I would kneel and pray.
Supplanter of my solitary life, my certainty, my north,
come home to me, your island of the lime… And never stray.
I’m indebted to Jayne and to Jo for your wonderful feedback. Thanks also to Jayne’s link on ghazals for anyone who would like to know more…