An ocean washes the shore of this island
The days roll in
upon the beach,
Seethe and foam
and then retreat
And the sand
sucks in each one;
Footprints roam,
fill and dissolve,
The years are
erased and scrolled,
Experienced and
then gone –
Scuttled or shipwrecked
-
The water
clogged with wrack;
Yet still the
sirens sing along,
Whilst tides
wreak havoc at your back.
Beyond the beach,
the trees …
Out of reach … and
on your knees.
A moment
The wind has dropped, coming in over
the lake;
The storm, with its wild unrest, has
moved on,
So now the ripples barely reach the
shore:
The muscle of water relaxed; cloud borne away.
And the light lingers now, is altered and slow,
More smoulder than burn, as if the lifted lid
Of sky were hesitant to be lowered -
The moment is time, gathered and stored -
Only, finally, to slip from your fingers,
To slide shut on the darkness.
On the far side, away from the house,
The trees are gathering in the shadows
To separate black from blackness.
And soon the moon at your back will slink
Quietly into the water, quivering
Just below the surface, like a thought,
And you won’t turn to stare it in the face
But simply watch how it dances - elusive and alone,
Amorphous, trying to keep afloat -
Only, finally, to feel it sink like a stone.
