Ridges Poem by Jerry Pike

Slowly,
I hear morning seas
wishhhhhhh,
and flop, onto pebbles.
Window lies skim in,
bouncing off those ridges,
that ridge, near our shoreline,
on the mattress.

I stare where truth used to lay,
conversation murmurs
flutter moth-like,
from old clothes, but die,
unable to negotiate
this seperated glass life.
Yet on the bed,
do we still have
one ploughed centre furrow,
or two edge-creeping troughs?
A decaying space for tomorrows
yesterday people.
Hanging on, to that imaginary wave
as it washes our dreams away.