Spring returns
to Thirsty Harbour,
whose thawing windows reveal slow
just how fast a once-trickle stream
flows, constant now,
without promise or flavour.
Mudded brown,
many mixed and broken things
swirl down
as watch then we old news,
the morning, the night,
each lighted bright and piled on
the noon.
Someone pulled a golden handle
marked ‘flush’
and our glorious days
by manufactured magic rush
to disappear.
Who knows when it happens,
perhaps sometime later this or
early next year?
At this poem’s beginning,
I realized our end is true,
you cannot say ‘Hoar
Frost’ anymore
without starting a war
about values
or meaning.
Robert On The Air 