#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

I found her down by the brown sealine rocks, a hunched bagg'd
windcheater aged; long dead roll up clinging for light. Anne Briggs,
Anne Briggs, I call to the waves; picking the bass
of her lowland love song. Desperately hoping for reflection
of glory, my backing track on the wind it moves on.


O youthful sweet mermaid of gone folk club sircuit,
whose voice cut scurfed the smoke of the ales;
dreg'd long life again from washed out old sailors,
take my heart wandering through fresh syth'd May.