By Betty Doyle
These are my people –
the men who cast their lines into nothing,
hoping there is sea below them.
I give them my eyes,
where the red dots blinking on distant cranes
refract, and wobble against the wet line.
I give them each my own, unloved body.
All of us are sat, waiting,
for the faintest movement, the I’m still here.
It is so easy to feel completely alone
in times like this, where the sky meets the sea
at an unknown point, and the future trembles there,
unseen, and says I’ll be waiting.
It is so easy to see them there, lines slack
between cold hands, and pray, are we the same?
Is there someone else awake when I am?
I cannot be the only one. We may wait, and ache,
for different things, but I see them, and feel
we must all be waiting, and aching, and praying
for a sun somewhere.