I Will Spit Poem by Robert Wylie

A dying sun will
Finally succumb
To a night's whittling blade,
And I, blunt-faced
On the wind's hand,
Will wither further
On my cross of unshed tears,
Fearing, as ever
The frail audience
Of an evening beach.

I will sense, in the Tern's cry
The recollection
Of a life's debris
Deeply stained by my
Father's quiet sadness.

I will taste in the spume
How long there has been,
And how long is still to come
And I will spit
To evacuate my fears.