This poem is actually Part One of a narrative poem, but I feel it is a fitting way to begin. A narrative poem is one that contains all the elements of a story, but is written in the style of a poem. The most famous narrative poet of modern times was Dorothy Porter, who died recently - she was the same age as me, and this alone makes me realise the ticking clock is relentless. Dorothy's death has left a gaping hole in the genre, hopefully another poet will come along to fill it soon.
The Choice
The ghost-coloured curtain of crepuscular sky
Is fleeting and uncertain, forcing its right to exist
As the vernal equinox exerts its power, announcing the change;
Winter is on its way
It is required.
The universe has its reason,
But the crimson-lidded bleached grey canopy
-Her father had a name for it – a ‘blood sky’ –
Is garish and out of place at this time of year.
He would laugh, she knows, if he were here now,
Watching this short episode of sky-news
At the start of his topsy-turvy day, anticipating smooth seas
For the usual sail across the strait.
She watches the fishermen reel in their tortured prey
(Assured of a good catch, they love the blood sky),
Searches for a signpost to the future, all the time knowing
The long stretch of sea will provide none.
She has stood here, each moonless night, in this same spot,
(Powerless against the tides and shifting sands)
Watching and waiting till darkness conceals all but the frosted waves,
Intensifying the ocean's secret power
Looking for reasons and finding none
To satisfy her need to know the how and the why –
He was killed by the twilight, betrayed by his best friend, the sea.
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