Dynamic Positioning
The sparkling swirl of Herring-Gulls
marks out the hunting-ground
where tongues of earth-stained river wrestle
with the open sea.
A dirty-looking mottled rock
jutting from a point mid-stream
has taken on the qualities of grace –
Suspended in opposing forces
by its muscle power,
the glistening arch-backed curve of Seal
is a standing-wave.
You almost forget that it’s a pose,
when - without the slightest warning
he lets go …
shrugs off the illusion of being anchored –
slides on down amongst the waters
a twisting-turning killer
in the flow.
Unquiet Sands
Walking the shoreline - looking for sea glass,
surviving fragments of pottery,
driftwood, variously distressed -
evidence of lives brought back
by the restless forces of wind and water;
laid in the sunshine once again.
Learning to read the secret language
of deeply enciphered coastal margins,
to look with a fresh, unmisted eye
at the supposedly mundane.
Finding that each storm scours deep,
shuffles layers like cards in a pack,
unravels what's too set in its ways –
knits the landscape whole again.
This beach is living - functional
sifting,
polishing,
moving along
those things that have outgrown their place –
setting them free to be tossed and worn
into new shapes and purposes.
Secret Garden
Down and down the moss-clad wet -
there has to be an element of risk
in travelling deep -
and yet this little jungle valley
with its bubbling stream
feels just like home.
In the filtered light
and muffled sounds of humanity
the mind slows down and notices details.
The old wooden bridge that needs repaired
before it will be safe to cross,
the little red summer-house almost engulfed
in ferns and overhanging leaves.
The trick will be to restore this space
without destroying its heart -
going just far enough to catch
that magic balancing point
where we become one with the wild.
Auroral
A million billion unseen fingers -
stretched out from a stormy Sun
hurtling past our outer margins
on their way to infinity.
Rousing clouds of sleeping atoms,
plucking field-lines into motion
like harp-strings in the sky -
turning our protective shield
into a wrap-around cinema screen
alive with orchestrations of light.
Chord progressions dance curvaceous,
cavorting with the velvet dark
rainbow pizzicatos tingle
senses into life.
Subtle disturbances of the ordinary
bring about this mysterious beauty
at the celestial artist's touch.
Swallows At Dusk
My heart is up there flying with them
as they carve the twilit blue -
those single points of consciousness
cavorting seamless with the sky.
Tracking them is an act of faith -
invisible until their breasts
are orange-flashed by the setting sun.
Suddenly they're down here with me
swooping past to take the moths
that dance around my lighted window
subliminal flickers - barely registered
leaving not the slightest trace
upon an emptied air.
Water Sculpture
Probing tongues of arch-backed ocean,
juggling with space and time –
ultimately, moulding light
race our senses up the beach,
licking the dull amorphous sands
into shimmering masterpieces.
Works impervious to bidding,
they’ll not languish in the cellar
of some two-bit millionaire.
Sharing each moment of their life,
until, with one last land-locked breath,
letting go their grip, they die
taking a part of us back down
into the eternal pool -
leaving treasures in their wake.
The Splash Zone
This is where the tension is:
a push-me-pull-you balancing
upon the edge of oceans.
Close to being the sparks of life -
a strangely familiar elasticity
to amphibians like us.
This is where they etch their lives;
the one’s who’re not quite killed by salt
or dried to death by air,
tolerating the best and worst of each.
No streamlined hunters of the deep,
they are forced to be magnetic,
eclectic gatherers
pulling habitats to themselves,
eking out a cussed presence
in this neither-here
nor-there,
drawing nourishment from the mists -
a fine alchemy of elements
seeded by the crashing waves.
Wild-ish Cat
Well, here you are again my friend
eyeing me up from a measured distance -
looking so like a pussy-cat.
Seeming to want some shred of contact
perhaps a little bit shy.
And here am I with this fantasy
that with just the right amount
of gentleness
by the end of - oh, perhaps a month,
you will be seduced to narrowing
the gap that is between us.
Sometimes you lie with half-closed lids
making me think that this is progress -
surely a sign of growing trust?
But each move I make, however slight,
with a voice so low and cossetting,
makes you withdraw proportionately.
It is so hard for me to recognise
that you need nothing.
I am a pebble on a string
swinging at the outer edges
of your sphere.
