Sign
There is a dull grey shimmer
on the surface of the water in the harbour
and the same sort of restlessness
you get as it starts to simmer
in a pan. Although it is not hot, it looks
as though it should be. Above
the surface, there is a sign
I cannot make out and, beyond that,
the open sea. It, too, is grey
but unmistakeably cold.
The movement is different too. Like
a carpet being unrolled, or
a blanket smoothed. My eye
keeps returning to the water enclosed
by the arms of the harbour.
I like that shimmer. I like
the idea of its imaginary simmer. And,
most of all, I like the fact
that I cannot read the words
that someone, sometime or other, made
the effort to nail above it.
Gordon Meade is a Scottish poet, now living in London. He divides his time between his own writing and running creative writing courses for vulnerable young people. He is also a Royal Literary Fund Writing Fellow most recently attached to the University of Dundee.