You send me a
txt from Bluff.
It's cold here,
you tell me.
You spent the
night rocking
in the van.
Trying to
keep warm.
You are 784
kilometres away.
Sitting on
Bluff Hill
looking across
Faveaux Strait.
You have been
reading about
shipwrecks.
The Success
was most
emphatically not
when it sank
in 1845.
The Ocean Chief
was set alight so
its crew could
chase gold.
Chance lot it's
on the beach in
Bluff Harbour.
Did you know?
You ask me.
State Highway 1
starts here.
Journeys end.
Journeys begin.
You are full of
facts today.
18958 kms
to London.
Still no closer
to home.
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1 comment:
What a wonderful variety in your poems. I must admit, I skipped "Bluff" and wrote a different poem instead - too many possibilities, the place name was one that crossed my mind. I really like yours.
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