The writer hunched down by an ocean of hope
And let go of the anchoring rope,
seaworthy words that his spilled soul splashed,
into a bottomless trope
A launching without a champagne bottle smash,
A ripple bob in a still pond,
Poetical dinghies seeking a home,
after dismal days in the beyond
Their joyful old shanties had salted,
Susurration of waves was their song,
The marooning of words in a slush pile,
Where solitude stayed for too long
Those critical storms were relentless,
Not a bite in an ocean of hooks,
And the writer waits, baited, forever,
In the harbour for unpublished books
Gavin Turner 