The glove is tugged out and pulled in by the tide.
All other evidence was claimed by the tide.
The old woman who has spent half her life blind
can read shifting futures in the ocean’s tides.
The teacups and saucers on the houseboat slide
but don’t break with the waves of the forgiving tide.
Madness, they say, is often defined
by the tug and the pull of mischievous tides.
Our poet, Ms Frost, pays a costly tithe:
a tenth of her sanity to the ghazal’s tides.
2 thoughts on “Mucking Around with a Bastard Ghazal”
a tenth of her sanity to the ghazal’s tides – wonderful
Thanks, Dhyan. :)