Each Morning, the Cliff Swallows

Each morning the cliff swallows hurry in
and out of nests, as if with purpose.

You never knew the ocean; that’s how it
differs from a mind with Alzheimer’s.

The flights of cormorants low over blue
water are dark threads, undone stitching.

Strands of seaweed clump where water and sand
meet, brittle tangles of memory.

You can ask for nothing more than a calm
evening, the cove brimming at high tide.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Mumble back at me

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s