Comments about Stephen Page
The Song Of The Refugee
The dream of the refugee
White sea plucks up the furniture
In a boarding house in Kent,
On a tossed and turning iron bed
A sick old man laments.
Old worn hands hold linen sheets
Like the reins of a white backed mare
White haired waves wash the bed ashore
in a seascape made of chairs.
With ailing sight he trawls the sea
One frail old hand in the water
Searching tide-worn memories
For a sight of his mermaid daughter.
The current, swirling, rises up
Wound round the old man's chest
The scream of steam in a boiling sea ...