The lingo of travel


This is harbour.
Ships dock
here. Forever in the rhythm of harbour.
And waves.
And the music of docks.
And the music of descending sun
stepping into
the enclosure of hands
grasping stray notes
of harbour.
And docks.
And clouds airbrushed against harbour
wavering in wind
strayed from confused sun.
This is harbour.
Rising. Falling. Named the confusion
of civilizations. Rising. Falling.
Docked in earth.
This is harbour.
Tree. Roots. A singular line shot
at the horizon’s mouth
which eats the earth.
And eats the earth
because this is harbour.
As small as
a moment never lost.
Or a hand. A look.
A hair which is flag in the wind.
This is harbour.
Ships dock.
And also hope.
Hope in the eye of inevitable storm.
This is hope.