A salt water wash.
A deeper blue.
A thousand different pieces.
The original liquid it contained,
only drops in an ocean,
battered by time, and the cruelty
of nature that lives by her own morality.
The rubbish from ships,
or too many romantics looking
for answers in a message that nobody will read.
A love letter, consigned to memory,
all of the little things
that were never really meant to be.
A benign sun and an indifferent moon,
guiding the tides, that pull the ships to the shore.
The glass, created in fire, broken by distance, is carried
for mile after relentless mile, until it is beached,
washed up, and disposed of, a kind of beauty
missed by anyone looking for perfection.
And we, like the glass are buffeted by
Human nature, we all live by our own morality,
and though time and life may have broken,
scattered what could have been,
leaving only fragments,
those pieces have been rubbed smooth,
have their own worth, to be treasured by anyone
who knows where to look.
About the Author
Ben Macnair is an award-winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom.
