by Mark Winson


I am a man,

physically so, of true gender, but not as envisaged by stalwart’s eyes

to be a marble pillar with scaffolding shoulders, and feet of load bearing concrete.


I should be a catchment,

of a finite mesh, sifting shadows, granting passage to unpolluted light,

to be a loving filter, both with ethical hands and eyes to catch encroaching devils.


I should be a fisherman,

with holding line and barb to capture the fleeting fish of opportunity,

for to be my family’s guide with all pillowed fingers, and gait to swerve a fiery pit.


Yet now put out to pasture,

engulfed by long grass, hidden from view, I graze my life with non dependants,

to search for my true worth with desperate footsteps, and the tread of uncertainty.