Sea Wall by Phil Wood

Sea Wall

Ambushed by this sky.
A watercolour brush
deft with pink promises.
I linger on a border
where waves fret.
Gulls are rusted voices.

Last night’s thunder
bothered no one.
The leafy graffiti
loiters in gutters.
Houses are buttoned
until summer guests.

I hear the slap of sea.
My labrador tugs
a chain of loneliness.
The pull to hours
of strolls with you.
We ghost along a wall.

by Phil Wood

Editor’s Note: The startling metaphors in this poem underscore the quiet loneliness of the narrator’s voice.

From the archives – The Retirement Of The Lighthouse Keeper by Phil Wood

fullsizeoutput_1f7e

The Retirement Of The Lighthouse Keeper

I could do without the light.
The bottled shadows pour
another slow glass, though
they cannot block that eye –
it blinks and blinks again,
both lamp and lens conspire
to see the sea through crusts
of salt; if light should slow
in whiskey’s blur of time –
but it beams across the zest
of spray, that grinning bay
with granite cliffs, and wakes
the ghosts in wrecks. I hear
the prayers shiver from voices.
I hear the drowning clock.
I could do without that light.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, January 14, 2016 — by Phil Wood

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

The Retirement Of The Lighthouse Keeper by Phil Wood

The Retirement Of The Lighthouse Keeper

I could do without the light.
The bottled shadows pour
another slow glass, though
they cannot block that eye –
it blinks and blinks again,
both lamp and lens conspire
to see the sea through crusts
of salt; if light should slow
in whiskey’s blur of time –
but it beams across the zest
of spray, that grinning bay
with granite cliffs, and wakes
the ghosts in wrecks. I hear
the prayers shiver from voices.
I hear the drowning clock.
I could do without that light.

by Phil Wood

Editor’s Note: The first and last lines of this poem neatly box into comprehension a great, smashing pile of unruly, oceanic emotions.