The Inundation of Dreams
The old man insists, the ocean will come back
while his grandchildren are dreaming.
While his sons prepare dawn nets in the dark,
ready for the morning catch.
He says when children dream, fish and coral
choreograph their own end, unperturbed
by rising seas, unfettered by the efforts of men
who would wipe out, then rescue the dying.
O we know our weight only as an afterthought
to the future, where the iridescent coral
of scribbleface and clownfish are only viable
in the camouflage of children’s stories.
We know the world can’t go back to what it was,
anymore than technique can turn back
the tides.
Gaia
Perhaps we returned to you too late.
Green and lovely mother.
Unchanging mother,
buried in the oceans of the past.
Up to your neck in the slops and spoils
of enlightenment.
We’re no longer students of philosophy.
Poetry. Mythology.
We’re no longer the young poets
who wrote all the best lines.
Wanderers in the Minotaur’s labyrinth
of blood and illusion.
The queen of sea and shadow
has grabbed us now, as if by the balls.
But still we’re guided by a star
of hope. And only hope
can scupper or save us.
Mark Murphy is an Irish, LGBTQ+, neurodivergent, working class writer, currently surviving marginalization in the UK. Thank you for your time in considering my work.
