Homer Petrarch Takes a Break

 
There's nothing like a seaside holiday
To banish painful thoughts of office toil,
Of endless-seeming hours of midnight oil
To earn sweet bugger-all in extra pay --
And if some inner voice should say
At last, "Hey you, the one I see recoil
From work each day!  Stop acting like a foil,
Just quit,"  it's plainly time for ocean spray.
And down at Narrawallee Beach, a strand
Of sunny sand where sapphire waters kiss
The shore, where dogs can play (no bloody police
In this quiet place), I cast a token line, try hand
Once more in gentle surf, no threat to fish --
Who cares?  Thoughts float away, and I'm at peace.

 


A Winter's Drought


The days are growing shorter now.  The light
falls low, ignites a few sparse autumn leaves
in russet flares; they quickly fade as night
enshrouds bare lawns in black, and frosts the eaves.
The morning comes with glacial speed.  It bears
no warmth despite the sun-bleached, cloudless sky;
my windscreen's iced up like a blind, but there's
no water to dissolve this shade.  The laws deny
such luxury when land's laid waste, when time
is all that flows through barren days.   No bloom
unfurls in arid spells, when little's left to prime
the pump but worn-out soil and widening gloom.
My reservoir of words is almost dry --
I pray that rain will come before I die.



© David Nourse 2010

 

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