My father talks of being twenty
days in an open boat. Adrift.
My father and others. War time
and the ocean was a bloodslick
clinging to continents.
They had been hit and only the dead
escaped the long days measured
by the turning boat beneath a cruel sun.
Each day a hundred hours of cracked
dry tongues along the chalk of teeth.
He remembers giving up, and that
his final thoughts were all about
a crooked back yard wall and thin
but glorious lines of silver smoke
from little chimneys. In winter,
rivers of gusting snow down white
and moaning lanes. In summer,
flowers and things they wished
they had done or said.
He recalls their believing themselves
to be dead yet each alive to mourn
his own death.
My father talks of the years having flown,
and of being twenty days adrift. His garden
is a blizzard of white roses.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (ADRIFT by Brian Wake )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- Older, Younger, Both, Joyce Sutphen
- Living in the Body, Joyce Sutphen
- Beggar thy Neighbor, John F. McCullagh
- In Black, Joyce Sutphen
- Ever After, Joyce Sutphen
- Miracle entry, hasmukh amathalal
- Evening Angelus, Joyce Sutphen
- Casino, Joyce Sutphen
- At the Moment, Joyce Sutphen
- Destonation Life, david kush