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Esmond Jones
A parting
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Leaning from the wind, frail and hunched back,
chin tucked tight to his chest: a body shield,
an aid to breathe; the open spaces of track
hold no fortress, nor does the weather yield.
Sea spray dries on parched lips and
croaky throat,
Eyes that have seen all see nothing in dim light;
A master of his trade, he built his own boat,
He sails from the land, soon out of her sight.
Safe on the shore, but the fire's smoke chokes her,
They both had chances, he took his and fled;
She wished things would have stayed just as they were,
Before the tide had turned and two hearts bled.
Red hot irons pilfer with her emotions,
An ice-age returns as he searches other oceans.
�Esmond Jones
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