Tag Archives: comfort

199: Inn

inn bigal101 MF

Jamaican rum rattles on the mahogany, polished clean by sailors’ elbows. Here shines a welcome light, a home from home, a pleasing gloaming in the night for the sore-footed and the weary. A thirst-quenching tableau, a swinging saving sign, the old Ben’s Admiral bowed over his maps. A place for sitting in cosy corners, plotting courses and rousing rabbles and making and breaking plans. All mouth and no trousers by the time the bell sounds the end of your libertine libations and sends you all scuttling across the cobbles, laughing too loud, earning frowns and night-gowned tuts, and falling into a guttered sleep too deep for dreaming.


© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com


149: Esplanade


I sit, hugging my knees on the concrete, the hardness raw with discomfort. I am here but not here, not wanting to be part of the bustle that isobars around me and flows past in a stream of busy-ness. Unusual and so ignored, somebody-else’s problem hunched on the uncaring pavement.

They all pass in oblivious haste, but as I blink open teary eyes, I can just see, over the lip of the overflowing rubbish bins: a pebbled beach, and beyond that, a watery cobalt expanse that reaches to the sky and seeks out all the edges, that rocks back and forth just like I do, sounding like the breath of home.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015