Moulding tides, casting waves,
work, abrade coarse rock
to rounded pebbles.
I pick one and skim
centuries across the surface.
Moulding tides, casting waves,
work, abrade coarse rock
to rounded pebbles.
I pick one and skim
centuries across the surface.
I know whitecaps,
night skies splintered
white with lightning.
Imagine: amongst the thrash
a keel splitting waves,
the full-bellied sail.
nothing here
reminds
jagged rocks
skirt cliffs
to no exact
crows hem
headland
snow melts
on touch
I admit. I am lost.
the streams
turned molten
metal in moonlight,
flowing across
the forest floor
like fingers
of lightning
out to grasp
or greet
she stops at the piano
in the antique store
plays a chord
from memory
and then another
she smiles
“The rest
I can’t
remember.”
they pass
quickly
galloping
horses of
cremello,
grey
their hooves
hitting concrete
hollow
heavy
as if
life was
fleeting
it was hard rain
the sort to pattern
pools in mud
to softly
dimple sand
to thrash a lake
in fierce spray,
ripples
and splash
A brutal hike
each step of
sweat, ache,
throb,
though from afar
it’s a beautiful path,
a ribboned
mud route
slashed in
mountainside
our old apple tree
burdened with
the weight of
Bramleys
hangs a branch low
offering the ripest
for our taste
for some relief
I try to write these
poems
have them abide
thoughts
but sometimes
I let them rebel,
I let them flow
and spill
where
they
must