High, clean wind;
here we are,
Walking a thin, hopeful
Line of bare-fertile soil
Between the shore
Piling smooth stones
One atop the other –
On bedrock –
To hold the
Coming storms away:
a different pulse, bare-fertile soil, bedrock, coming storm, fertile soil, heaven, hopeful line, low tide, poetry, pulse, shore, smooth stones, storms, tide water, wind
Born, innocently enough,
In the full, clear light of day –
As simple mischiefs often are –
As sunset-shadows grew long,
It started to go a little bit wrong.
With dark-thoughts getting stronger
It got sinisterly wronger
So, when black night was longest,
Screams at their strongest
It reached dreadful-climax wrongest.
(My apologies to the grammar purists out there.)
There are treasures to be found
In even the dullest, flattest of puddles
Ignored by the sky-crawl sun:
The finger print shadows of clouds.
This devil-wind is a loveless hammer
Throwing whitecaps against cruel rocks;
War-waters crowd against the walls,
Big mean-business birds are on their way;
There was a reason for this –
But if I was considered important enough
To be told – I cannot recall what it was.
I remember being told that every
Question is a storm that
Blows both ways;
Every gate is a frame.
You want to know who’s
Sleeping in my bed this week –
Do you really care? –
I need to know who is
Living in my head
Photosource: www. santhisdiary.blogspot.com
Puddle Muddle (outlandishlandscapes.wordpress.com)
Fresh Eyes (beeseeker.wordpress.com)
clouds, devil-wind, Fingerprint, frames, gates, mean-business birds, questions, sky-crawl sun, treasures, war-waters, whitecaps
I take smoke-music
With my changing landscapes;
Melodies seamlessly stitching
History and present paths
I prefer simple- silence
For my reflections;
It helps me
Put the clouds back
Where they belong.
belonging, clouds, fragile pin, history, landscapes, melodies, poetry, reflections, smoke music, Sometimes, stitching, wind
World wide winds are stirring again,
About to blow the sun and
The full weight of history
Around my fragile pin again.
Fresh-caught fish for supper,
Pine cones for the fire,
Stones on a cairn
For the future.
That wind is
This is me:
The boy who
Never stopped trying
To catch the sea…
The surface changes so quickly-
Faster than the fates can think –
Reflected silver promise
Of weak, spring sunshine;
Patches of pewter-grey cloud,
Moving with the driven wind
Textures appear, vanish:
Planed, stacked, sculpted –
Held then changed.
Shapes of feathers, dragon claws,
Quills, fins, stretched thumbprints
On fine blue clay slip.
Fractals, ridges, furrows.
Not a boat or sail in sight,
No birds riding the salt air.
The storm is gone,
Cliffs hold breath in granite ribcages.
The road is damp; The long road,
The Tolkien one that
Goes ever on.
Memories change it,
The telling of tales,
But the sea rolling in,
Pays no mind:
Has no mind to pay;
Surface changing so quickly …
Little breath dramas;
This is me …
They’re closing, inexorably now,
The sunset-hinged claws and jaws
Of this high-tide, smooth water
Dark-sky night, to spectacular
Seashore-songbird overture notes.
Fresh eyes will open,
New stars be named,
Small men of the shadow folk
And maidens of the coastal veil
Will meet, laugh, dance and
Share the rich, rainbow fruit
Of forbidden summer valleys
Ere day’s disk be seen again.
Full Moon at high tide (marikacuriale.wordpress.com)
claws and jaws, coastal veil, dark-sky, forbidden valleys, maidens, overture, rainbow fruit, seashore, shadow folk, songbird, sunset hinges
Came in vans
While I was out,
Tethered a wintermoon
To new pavement
Electric metal pole
Outside my summer bedroom.
The pale-frost light
It casts soothes
The spirits that
Haunt the midnight
Gigantic northern sky leans down
With full-silver wind-weighted clouds
On heather’d hilltop and fairy flag slopes.
Light is leaving, kidnapping colours;
Rain is coming to change the land:
Heaven and soul-sea’s ebb and flow.
If I’m not here when you awake,
Forgive me, I pray, for I’ve
Gone to have my jackdaw days.
Jackdaws in Chimney Pots (texthistory.wordpress.com)