i.m. Glen Hansard
We’re pulling on the red chord, waiting
in the deep shade with memory
for company. Falling slowly, history
dives like a cormorant under spindrift.
This is what happens when the heart
just stops. The side you never get to see
you’ve seen now, finally. The cost
is everything not accounted for yet.
I’m trying to build something more
than a tool to trick time, catch
the spell of the boat you spent years
fixing for everyone but yourself.
We’re watching for signs like fishermen
at first light paused before the glamour
of the sea, ready with open arms
for what might blow into them which
could be multitudes or the map
of a spirit you left behind.
We’re pulling on the red chord, waiting
in the deep shade with memory
for company. Falling slowly, history
dives like a cormorant under spindrift.
This is what happens when the heart
just stops. The side you never get to see
you’ve seen now, finally. The cost
is everything not accounted for yet.
I’m trying to build something more
than a tool to trick time, catch
the spell of the boat you spent years
fixing for everyone but yourself.
We’re watching for signs like fishermen
at first light paused before the glamour
of the sea, ready with open arms
for what might blow into them which
could be multitudes or the map
of a spirit you left behind.
