This Time

Dawn mist bursts free from its shroud,

starts taunting ocean calm, small waves whimper,
my head feels the sly smile of a black sky.

'Will it be dark – Not this time'

Out there the  echo  echo,
haunting of an angry tide.

Cold starts its sharp scratch,
scratching, searching for my toes,
sucking,  sucking my wet footprints
deep into the sand's grit,
holding fast – mocking.

Father's grip tightens:   The knowing,  the knowing,

the grey shadow looms,
disappears – back – nearer – back – closer,
lapping the feet of the first in line.

'Not this time – Not this time'

I leap  I leap
the sky roars, clouds open: 'Fly – Fly' it shouts

I fling my coats,  stretch up naked arms, float free in air.
Free from: hiding – a lorry's rumble – trying – trying again
– tomorrow – tomorrow.

No need for an ocean wash – to cleanse a new identity,
Sheets of white paper carve the sky – dive and dart like angry seagulls, drop their print into the lanes, filling channels,

This Time

Searchlights fade like distant stars.

My feet point,  point the way – know the way,
My dry feet will find my footprints waiting.