Thursday, February 14, 2008

man at fifty

on a deserted northern beach
you shed your clothes
and the false skin adults wear

like a small boy, arms outstretched
you become a plane, skim
the water’s edge, fly back along
the winding track of years

then parachute aboard a pirate ship
unfurl the sail of your imagination,
go scudding off across the emerald sea of memory
to find the treasure chest of dreams
you buried forty years ago

below your man voice on the breeze
the silver laughter of a child sparkles in the air

your hair, wild as machair grass, springs
from your head, as if it's startled by
this sudden raid into the past

and I watch as a mother might a much loved child –
man at fifty, running naked on the sea damp sand

man at fifty, running wild

Magi Gibson


She counts murdered women. Not women  wiped out in warzones by bullets and bombs,  nor the 63 million missing in India - Rita Banerj...