The Rhymer in the Long Tongued Room

We parked and stopped for coffi at the

Owl and the Pussycat

before we took the short walk

to The Boathouse near the bay.

.

The ‘slow black, crow black’

was more like mizzle grey today

and squally through the blusters

where we wound our gentle way

.

to the summit of the brittle steps

where hand rails turned to railings,

turned to ivy walls and tall bamboo

and printed signs that say

.

‘This is not the Boathouse’

this is Dylan’s writing shed

where the wood became intrinsic

to Undermilk, the play

.

and the rhymer in the long tongued room

typed his days away

watching redshank and curlew

flick their wingtips in the spray.

.

Copyright: Lorraine Voss