Over stormy seas

The words don’t come when the mind is bound
when feelings are tossed and thrown around
on unseen seas

The currents swirl
alive with jolts –
is this lightening
or dark, hidden creatures shot through with electric sparks?

Above, the moon shines full
serene, all knowing
she betrays nothing of the churn below
benevolent, ageless
she waits for this, too, to pass

She has watched the ebb and flow of the human heart
for long enough to see the patterns
for long enough to know
everything changes —
even this.


The bleakest months

In winter’s bleakest dark-day months
when winds whip in from churning briny sea
and wraith-clouds storm and race each other –
grey shades scudding o’er ragged countryside –
ravens soar and call for war into the solitary void;

when only rocks will shelter sheep from rain,
tumbled down through browning gorse and broom,
still stonefenced pastures hold their brilliant green
from white-dressed hills down to steely waves,
and fog-kissed leaves sparkle in the gloam;

Those cruel months would call me out to stand,
hands skyward,
to watch and feel and breathe the power of the land.



The cruelest months, I find, are the most beautiful. NaPoWriMo day 4.




I came down to the water
with the wave worshippers
sun worshippers
and watched the sun set
across the heaving sea
let its cold wash over me
breathed deeply
until my mind cooled;
together, we, strangers
grew drunk on the magic
bowed to the power of nature
its swirling poetry
then withdrew, one by one,
into the verdure of the hills.

Into Waves

The churning briny white of the ocean swirls
crashing, retreating, crashing
its chilling cold refreshes
washing away the day’s burnt heat, the dust.
A small boy ventures out –
just up to his waist –
he stands, letting waves knock him sideways
again and again they douse him,
a scruffy dog trots out seeking friendship,
more children join in,
dogs race back and forth, frolicking,
following balls and frisbees and birds into the dunes,
then the surfers come;
the afternoon’s quiet teems with life
with a soaring sense of goodness
stretching into the silver-sun drenched evening.

Steel-grey clouds glide across steel-grey water
ceiling and floor
sounds move, watery, between them;
a dog barks, a bike whines along the road,
the crashing waves echo,
each one of them
topped frothing-white
all the way out to infinity.
The cold storms down from the mountains
creeps through house cracks,
hinting at autumn,
all is still for a moment before the next gust
shaking trees and gates,
the stillness falling back in just as suddenly.

Even in storms the waves are jewel-toned
they froth and boil
reaching ever closer, ever higher,
the tide pulling and pushing,
tossing seaweed – it dances
a great manic dance,
receding only to gather strength
to return, flooding pools at higher ground
liberating the rainbowed mussels
left behind between mosses,
closer it splashes, finally forcing me back
parallel with other beach-goers
until finally they leave
and it is just me,
alone with the seething turquoise sea.

Night village

The dark-descended village
huddles between sea and hills
fading into velvet-covered black

Starlight, boat light, town light
(landlocked stars) reflections mingling in the night
dance, meeting at shoreline

Humanity’s sounds are swallowed
by sea-roar, wind-howl, frog-song;
the night strips our uneven power