Quicksands Poem by Tom Billsborough
Quicksands
Today the silence is suborned
By complicit undertones
Of treacherous quaking sands.
Unstable ground enshrouds your feet
And, with compelling power,
Now drags you down
Into its tight enclosure,
As though by unseen hands.
The distant tide has turned
And witnessing your distress,
Sweeps back across the bay
At fearful pace to join the action,
As we the curious who gather
At the scenes of accidents
Wondering who has died.
Now in your ears
An earlier warning rings..
Never cross the sands without a guide.
As in the Morecambe Bay, quick sands may engulf life and drag us to unprecedented and unanticipated danger.... With timely guidance, we can perhaps avert the tragedy! Great image.....You have given a macro picture, through a micro scene!
Yes, Valsa. That's what I was trying to do. Also the Bay has a deceptively calm beauty on a bright day with the great Cumbrian fells in the background.
That is one thing I am always fearful of, I did have a bit of a scare once and since then Iam always a bit weiry. I could feel my heart quicken as I was reading this one, great write. Annette
I used to go there every weekend and often witnessed the incredible speed of the tides there. So I guess I was forewarned quite early. But many lives have been lost there. Local advice is a must.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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6/16/2024 1:14:43 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Quicksands. Bogs. Sinkholes. Life is rife with them, all these sudden treacherous situations that spring up on the unwary or the self-blinded. Usually we can trace the blame back to our own decisions to take off on the wrong track, to follow our own nose, or render ourselves unable to distinguish safety from danger because danger can be dressed in such alluring ways... you stay safe, my friend, listen to your guide.... I really like this poem. You've penned some sobering lines- - - - - As we the curious who gather At the scenes of accidents Wondering who has died..
My main aberration was getting completely lost in Puddleton Forest. We were viewing the house where Thomas Hardy, poet and novelist, lived in Dorset and took the wrong path. after a few meanderings one of my daughters thought we'd passed one clump of trees before. So I said: let's pretend we're lost. an hour later I changed my mind. I said Let's pretend we're not lost! It was a sort of plantation on level ground. It was a dull day so we couldn't figure out the directions. We ended up at a lay bye about four miles from our car! Luckily a couple took us back to our parking place. Of course I had to hand in my GUIDE badge. Wife and daughters insisted! Luckily No sink holes near us. I read about them in Wyoming in one of Annie Proulx's stories. They sounded horrendous.