A mile to shore

In some ways thinking of bridges

Built tall,  raised up upon, made in books

To stretch a mile from isle to shore

Tied together with old weathered boot laces

Braided in their ways to hold together stories

A bridge readable to cross both fun, some difficult

As their tales fill in words, phantom lost imagery

Between wayfaring places both near to far

Where imagination sets in, trailing choices wild

Free to map tangled courses, lands faraway to climb

Out each step, stumble in a jump’s leap inside each story

Lost adventure in a bridge’s tales lining pages while covers

Fade beneath the fire, a young weary sun.

Thoughts while writing the above came out of reading a poem by children’s Librarian, Charlotte Cuevas, and her poem, Day 173 – You And I Are Not Speaking, where the lines speaks, “If I jumped off a bridge they’d say – it must’ve been my shoes untied;”. I thought, and looked down at my boot laces thinking, even if they where braided these won’t last much longer. And well the book, the stories, Charlotte is writing 365 of them in poetry form, and is almost halfway, the journey from isle to shore. One could probably say it’s Charlotte’s mile to shore, to the everyday climb in today’s (each day’s) stories in fiction, and life.

That’s how the above started out, but it’s inter wound, spun on the many different takes to the meaning in such a bridge, adventure, life, one”ll find something different each time reading, as do flow the variety to words, lines, imagery within the tales to such books mixed in bundles, tied together with braided weathered boot laces to span the mile from isle to shore.

What would be the return journey be like, to then reach out in the other direction, a never ending pier, vanishing out across the expanse of water ?

9 responses to “A mile to shore

    • Thanks, Suzanne! I’ve added a little edit. I’m wondering how many takes might there be on how such lines might translate as an illustration, drawing, or painting. I have this picture in my head, but will most certainly be different to what each other reader to the poem visualises..

  1. The idea of a bridge, books held together with the feeble strength of old bootlaces under the light of a young and weary sun: a painting in verse.

    • Vic Briggs, thank you. The first thoughts before pen touched paper, came as books, a bridge, and old boot laces (see small edit addition to the bottom of the post), and the final thought as the last line, “Fade beneath the fire, a young weary sun” came with the last touch of pen to the paper. What I see in my head at the moment looks totally cool when reading the poem.

      • Thank you for sharing that, Sean. There is a magic to how poetry is created and it is always a privilege to have a glimpse into the poet’s creative act.

  2. You know how to fitly conjure up images in people’s minds. I love the last line in your one stanza poem,, ‘Fade beneath the fire, a young weary sun’ Great work Sean! 🙂

    • The whole escape, came from a single line to a librarian’s poem, a keeper of tales, and stories, bearer to worlds (see small additional edit to bottom of post). The last line, came as the last thought, a little piece of clueless magic, and I’m still not sure what it means to me, or the poem. Thanks, Seyi, for finding the poem, much appreciated. What would you say is your best novel to date?

Write away...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s