Hyacinths
I don't know what to make of it,
strands of an errant dream,
when hyacinths sought rebellion,
and a mechanic plied uncertainly
across an eastern sea.
It lies there out of reach,
the tail end of a tale,
of vistas far and unknown,
of stories almost told,
of gulls that fly stationary,
caught in an offshore breeze,
of small boats launched into exile
by hapless navigators,
from a gray and gloomy beach,
just about midday.
There's something about
a romantic revolt,
by some who should have known
better,
and flowers stolen from a vase,
and thrown to the street below,
a desperate signal that
the game was over,
and all involved must flee.
One loved one left
for sacrifice,
to cover for the rest.
A sense of loss and of despair,
no home, no friends again.
The story told, intrudes my thoughts,
of when hyacinths sought rebellion
and the mechanic plied
uncertainly
across the eastern sea
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