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The end of the adventure

In a rather exciting development, a poet friend of mine, Mattias Thomas, has agreed to give me a poem each week to put up on this blog. A small circle of us have been enjoying these for years, and now you can too.

Joly has been kind, or foolish enough to allow me the space on his blog for some verse. I’ve pledged to submit a new, or at least revised, poem each week. We’ll call it an exercise in discipline, humility and public speaking. MT

The End of the Adventure

When ascension comes,
they’ll come in droves.

When the raptures comes,
they’ll be praying to the sun.

They’ll be discussing their wild days
on the railways of Europe,
when Henry and another chap
got so drunk in Port Bou
they went swimming with their shoes on.

The last days of dust were high-backed, comfortable,
eating sardines and mackerel,
drinking small cups of cider from a cold flask.
The last days of dead grass were fruitful.

The chattering kids at the hermitage
pointed out the bags of sand,
Henry and his friend climbed the steps
heavy-handed.

This is where they meant to rest,
lonely men in fits of rapture.
They have finished their adventure,
this is where they meant to rest.

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