The Leaving

T
Reflections in the Mirror Looking Back No 6
  
He stood small
The smell of salt soaked rope
Burned into memory bank
Sun in graceful retreat
Tinges shadows with golden grief
Ships horn forlorn bleats once, then twice
And ties that bind are cut
Eyes salt tears filled but not spilled
For oceans have enough
And manhood’s early lessons
Can’t begin soon enough
For men don’t cry at leaving
He stands, small alone
And grief at tea is swallowed
Now standing tall
Leavings are repeated
And ties that bind are cut
Perhaps if he can spill his tears
And regurgitate his grief
He can arrive

And understand the leaving.

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badgerslabyrinth

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