Tony Mott


Deliberately he climbs
twisted thread in hand,
underneath his narrow frame
the warm water breathes warnings
of free fall arrests,
amongst tentative overhangs
and twisted limbs
he stills himself.

Lost in instruction
he climbs until the air thins
and self-confessed
lines of communication with his anchor fray,
antediluvian tension
burns his cold palms.

Below the audible
anchored to hope,
petrified rope in hand
his twin waits
memory raw from extended grip,
the chance to protect a safe decline,
as distant now as then.

Copyright © Tony Mott 2018


About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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1 Response to Tony Mott

  1. Jean says:

    Beautifully written, expressive and descriptive, evoking the imagination and left wanting more.

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