Dawn breaks,
With a fire whipped ocean
And the boatmen’s song.
Voices in waves
Sail the morning winds.
Tumbling from salt spray lips
Rhythm and hymns,
Caught on wings of a guillemot.
In a theatre of fog
Music takes flight,
Rising, like a streak of mist
To face heaven’s door.
And boatmen weep.
Sing goodbye, to the waves,
Lost upon the sorry sea,
As day dies still,
And the boatmen sleep,
And the boatmen sleep.
And we sleep.
©EilidhGClark
Hello…
Yes, speaking…
They found what in my laundry bag?
Who found it?
I can assure you it doesn’t belong to me…
Yes. I’ll hold...
How could I have been so careless? It must have fallen into the bag when Harold was around. If only I’d left him on the doorstep instead of being sucked into party politics again.
Oh shit. What if Harold planted it in the bag.
If the team find out…
No, what if the family discover who I really am.
They’d never believe it.
I am so dead.
I’m still here...
Could you stop shouting…
Look it isn’t mine. You see, this morning, there was a man…
I understand that, but if this was anyone else…
I’m only 34 years old, why on earth would I be interested…
No. No. Please don’t , I can’t…
But if my mother finds out there was a...
I’ve never been on a cruise ship. In fact, I’ve never been on a bloody rowing boat...
Yeah, but that doesn’t count. Does it?
I think you’ll find I normally carry a red one. I usually keep it in the car though...
Is this a sick joke?
Hello...
Who are you? Put the other bloke back on, I don’t want to deal with someone else…
You’re Kidding. Pat?
Thank God. Can you just pop it into the pocket of my jeans once they are dry? Your a babe...
Thanks. And tell Alan, I’m laughing now, but wait til I see him...
This is a one sided telephone conversation. It is a great way to add mystery to a scene. Perhaps someone is listening in on the conversation and trying to put the pieces together. Perhaps the protagonist is concealing the other half of the conversation. It is a fun way to write. This is also a great writing prompt.
Write the other half of the conversation.
Happy writing folks.
Nobody comes but the postman.
She watches him pause by the fence.
He slips his wedding band into
his pocket. The red light beckons.
His guilt, as thick as his folded fivers.
©Eilidh G Clark
N.B. The first line in this poem is taken from Gillian Clarke’s ‘At One Thousand Feet’.
Eilidh G Clark 