The Lagoon

Could I ever find the words; to tell

you how you shape my life each day; of the

moods you assume; each morning’s

slant a different view unlike before; just as

its been its changed again; Hues of

blue, azure sheets and sparkling shafts; stolen silver

arrows of love’s delight; then cobalt

black unyielding deadly in embrace; then softer

tempting, a body undressing; in loam

and grey; then flimsy

teardrops falling from angels on their slow swoop home; then breathless

kisses as wind for sailing; on rippled

sapphire crests of foam; their rolling

lilting swells all breasts and smiles; while your finely

fashioned fingers kindly lap the waiting

longing lounging supine shore?


Could I ever take your hand; and walk

along the sheltered snaking trails of single file; their battered

bushes braded by coarse brown fishing ropes; long unused

their fibres fading underfoot; though memories

of their use by calloused yellow hands a vivid picture in my mind; those bitter

biting boatfuls in morning mist; before I

found you and the sun could brace the day; and fill

my heart with joy for the catches I have made; as we

weave along the shivering way; lovers seeking

sanctuary in sandduned arms; while afar

the scraggy seagulls screaming us to go; this way or that

as we wander along our dreaming, seeking, loving way?


Could I ever watch with you; fire-warmed at

dusk while the evening star arrives; opening wide

its festooned festival of sparkling light; like you

a galaxy only I have found; and see

you drink the Southern Cross; its pointers

touch your heart and see the darkened shadows; flee like

bats against the moon whose face; unwrapped by

joy beams upon us as we ride; the milky waters

of our epic flight to far-flung fissures where; as distant sailors

of the night in winds that bite and coil; our love

like planets implodes in showering bright-night sky; and we

the seraphs we’ve become mouth our mystic love-oaths; like travellers

of the stars oft do?


Could I ever find the words, take your hand, watch with you; as I begin

to stir towards that Watersedge; my dimming

sight all tied and tired with mildewed mist; my body

drawn by calling tides; my thoughts

like shoals of slippery knaves submerging sinking; below the

the places beyond our depth; my memories

like eels who make their slidy stealthful getaways; beyond the

spit where stronger currents wash them free into another sea; and though

my heart recalls elated sultry days and the never-ending nights; we sought

to hold the moon and how we stumbled; new-shorn soldiers

phalanxed across the dunes; and even as

the colours and sacred waters have washed us through and made us one; will not

the tide arrive that one last time; and I’ll be alone again?

Chris Ahrends – August 2012


About chrisahrends

For me, writing is a healing art aimed at healing me - and if in any way it resonates with you - that would be wonderful. I live in Cape Town, South Africa; work in the Anglican Church of Southern Africa and am married to Jacqui Macqueen Ahrends.
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