Turn the Page, Turn the Life | A Writer’s Battle for Survival | Help Her Win
Turn the Page, Turn the Life | A Writer’s Battle for Survival | Help Her Win

G.W. Sherratt



G.W. Sherratt


Midsummer Threnodies No. 3

Midsummer Threnodies No. 3

2 mins

he’s free of the draw, damning and vicious,

it's stone a vein to his heart,

her night-locked hair tied around his fingertips

and jaded eyes, titanic in power

yet now – their allure over. finished.

finally, finally, the words rolling on his lips

fucking incredibly, he tastes the choice;

relishing, relinquishing, a chance at freedom,

at another life, somehow not his own

drawn out on the blank canvas that is

the beach in the quiet after low tide.

saving, savouring the sun-drawn kiss

and all he’ll miss fades and sets into

a summer of eternity

that will change him forever

and will change the same fate –

forsaken, forsworn –

forewarned by his blood-brothers’

fall and drawing to the end.

the dusk inflames the bay,

turning the Atlantic vermillion

and together with the trio, none leading each other,

pound that old familiar rhythm

along the sand, running,

running, running, running to you

their feet falling as one,

their hearts falling as none before

have ever for the wild untamed beauty

of the great ocean and westerness –

the deep calling to them, crying out

a throe that echoes across all –

empyrean and abyssal and blue as Bombay sapphire

a marine body which is of the same species

and yet so special from the occident shore, cold and grey;

here, it is gold and citrus-drenched.

brave man, brave boy, chivalraic

he can’t know what he will face

nor what he will lose

but he will cede it all

with his brothers beside him

and safe in that knowledge,

he runs on; towards night.

in the darkness of the lass, alone together,

he steps and springs and sways

with her, arms entwined, mouth to mouth

fore’d to fore’d to forward,

xaver lily-white to her pendant eagle-set

his heartbreaking and leaping with the draw

of the breaking and leaping waves

they dance on the shore

under the moon, no rings or chains to hold him

their feet taking them beyond the edge of the sand,

his hand, wandering, wondering,

stars wheeling above them in the viscaian night.

galaxies and oceans and great wars

for their love, shattering out of them

as firelight from a crack’d vessel,

lie in between and they lie in between

the stars and the skies and the sea

his heart leaps, counterphase to the sea

and withdraws, the white horses chasing,

keeping pace with him

as the three boys flee along the beach.

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