The Portage

Ye can smell th’ fresh new season;

‘Tis in th’ air and in th’ moist turned brou.

‘Tis found in th’ wattles and

In th’ lapping o’ waves

In th’ green hills ‘an’ in th’

Purple lupins that blesses th’ fiel’s with thair colours

Ye can hear th’ fresh new season befall th’ travelling bones

an’ in th’ hert wings o’ th’ puffins.

They hear the calling, th’ men o’ th’ sea

Tae be lost in countless days an’ nightfalls

Adrift in th’ endless faem.

Ye can smell th’ fresh new season;

Th’ winter’s foul coughing sends

vapors throughout th’ morning midcourse.

Ye can smell th’ filthy whores

an’ their soiled bedsheets,

Thair endless creations into

Th’ depths o’ human degradation tha’ each new morn brings,

whilst th’ ships are run agroun’

th’ call of th’ sea and th’

waters beyond th’ horizon,

they seek release

these men of th’ sea,


th’ return of innocence

th’ purity o’ th’ waves.

About jedwardnajera

I am an artist and a Poet. I live the life of a poet. I published several novels. Nena the Fairy and the Iron Rose, Dust of the Moon are among them, available through Amazon Books. I have spent over thirty five years in a classroom. I am now retired from that profession. My father kept a living record of his lifetime as he lived through the Twentieth Century. He was born in 1908 and almost lived long enough to see us enter the new millennium. He entrusted to me nearly 400 pages that he wrote through the years. Now I am continuing the tradition by posting my own stories and misadventures. I am trying to post a new entry or chapter each Friday. Check in on us at least once a week for the latest post.
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