Stuart Robertson - Photographer

The blind poet

Heard the deaf one say

I wrote about a cloud-cloaked moon

They both felt the blood pumping

In their veins

 

“I’ll tell you this”

The sightless one motions

Exaggerated lips and silent hands

Four out of five’s not all bad

Sensing a silent dusk descend

 

If pressed to describe self

Would either list weakness first?

Obliged by circumstance or fate

Not wishing for

Allowances or shabby excuses

They’ve always felt that way

 

The mismatched pair walked

A little further along the esplanade

Beside them a dark sea waves

its hellos and goodbyes

A taste of salt seasoned air

and frying onion undertone