Stones

Stones

The obligatory night out.
The drink for lubrication and
Social inebriation.
But you say

“My man is calling and everything is not okay”

So, with a turn of your heel,
A taxi banks the kerb.

You are away.

—–

Goddammit! We’re getting old
Your face is showing it in photos.
Not all of them, but some.
A slow tide rising to the high water mark.
Rising above the boulders that once hid
The festivities and misdeeds of your youth.
Now, after all, does it not show in your face?

The tide recedes discovering me a drowned old man
Exposed on a soft bed of sand.

Wrinkled and alone
I’ll shout to the young passers by

“This beach used to be boulders
I used to have stones
The like you’d never be able to cross”

As they walk away leaving footprints
In the soft wet sand
Of a once
Proud
Man.

—–

But this is it.
You cram your life into a funnel,
Try to stem the heavy flow,
To present to friends,
A definite false note.

I stand on the corner of the street, alone,
Wondering where all the boulders have gone.

 
 
Callum Boath is in Edinburgh and finds it hard to stay off the sauce. He studied English and Film (MA) and finds it most relaxing bathing under the fluorescent lights of costa del call centres.

 

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