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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Whistle Wing

Casting off the lines.
Fog, water, light.
The phantom of the pier.
Voices magnified,
standing still.
My father gathering up
the ropes.
Smell of canvas sails,
fish.
I huddle cold
by the center board,
listen to the wash of water
on the rocks,
the sides of the boat.
I will not forget this,
ever,
my child says.
We have not forgotten, I reply.
Our father is going to set
us free.

He pushes on the pier
with his leg,
and drops in the boat.
I feel the love of his excitement.
We will sail and fish.
I watch the shore recede.
My father rolls a cigarette
and lifts a sail.
Life eddies away.
Would he mind if I touch
his face?
I will not always be alive.
I peer out the window
above these words.
Goodby, I say.
As I huddle by the keel.

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