Clare Hornsby



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Shipwreck of a poem on the Western Cape

I floated down from the mountain
With the wind-fresh stream
Willingly washed to the Pole
A paper craft of words in fragile folds
Life’s load lashed and stowed.
Now I am foundered, a torn sheet
I met my disaster, my iceberg.

I am holed in heart
A stone weighs me under
Full flood rushes silent
To drown me. I sit low
In the water, shun
The blows that keep coming and down
I go where whales pass by
And play through southern ocean’s
Cold wide bay.