The scowl of your elevated Cornish brow

as you lean over the hard won typewriter

and understanding so much of the world

yet deferring

in part

to the men in your life,

that is how I always imagine you


A murderess I cling to

with hands gripped tight,

white knuckled and surrendering

my masculinity, a joke in your

once noble Gallic background,

this I gleaned from you,

I am poor

a servant in your house,

a cleaner, a maid, a sweeper

of broken dreams…of absolutes and forced hands,

in your presence

I am weak

but fulfilled as I lift

the piercing lantern high upon cracked and crowded rocks

as you sail safely by;

our harbours missing your bounty

and your kingdom of barrelled rum.


For D.d.M

Ian D. Hall