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By Mark Waldron

On occasion, when the mood takes him
as it so often does, he will put down


his papers, get up from his kindly old chair,
and leave for a while the sweeping beam


to sow its charitable seed — that seed which,
when falling on the ground


of a helmsman’s fertile consciousness,
ought germinate in it a cautious vigilance.


He descends then, the long corkscrew of
the stairs and opens at their base the metal door


so that he may take a closer look at what might
be beyond his tower’s environs. There he always


finds the churning world, she laps at him from
every side with no respite, and spatters him


with spray. Thanks to a certain modulation,
a tone which he adopted long ago


when he still wore shorts and buckled shoes,
there is no danger here from neither shark


nor crocodile, not in this sea stuffed as it is
like a dressing-up box with whimsy.


Indeed, were there such creatures hidden
neath the sliver-thin surface of the waves,


they’d have no teeth but only soft gray gums
and goofy grins, and they’d be giggling


knowingly at the whole thing. And so it is
that as he gazes out, he cannot help


but wonder what it is he might be warning of
with the light that turns atop his tower,


because that tower is itself in fact the only
hazard anywhere on which a ship might rip her


wooden skin and haemorrhage her lumpy
blood that’s made of all the gasping sailormen.


Source: Poetry (September 2018)

  • Activities
  • Living
  • Nature

Poet Bio

Mark Waldron
Mark Waldron’s third collection, Meanwhile, Trees, was published by Bloodaxe Books in 2016. He was selected as a Next Generation Poet by the Poetry Book Society in 2014. See More By This Poet

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