Poetry Blogs (2019, harbour)

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Girl On A Narrowboat

I was walking by the canal with Duke

The stone towpath reeks of history

We passed a multi-coloured narrowboat

A homely vessel redolent of mystery

 

On board was a girl swabbing the deck

I must confess I liked the cut of her jib

She invited me down the gangway

The cabin seemed no bigger than a crib

 

She loves my dog and I love her

I've never known such a feeling

...

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galleryharbourjulienarrowboat

Winter Beach

Remember

The sea assaults

Of winter gales when

Towering spray sheets curl

Over the green-stripe tower

At the harbour mouth

And waves roll shoreward

Beside its jetty

Shingle crashing

Floating spume across the beach

With black stones cold shone by spray

That above the wave thrust

Hides the horizon behind its mist

As the sun shines low

On a December afternoon

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beachharbourjettyseashinglespumestormTan-y-Bwlchwaves

Images of a High Tide

harbour entrance swell

river bridge

above the beach

the scraping rattle

millions of stones

sucked off the beach

returning to the sea

 

beside the harbour wall

crossing waves

rearing waves

joining

breaking in foam

crashing

onto the shingle

the vast pull

of the receding sea

the undertow of sound

 

the bay

grey brown sea

under a blue sky

...

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Conversation in a Harbour Cafe

It was all in her eyes

When he said

I

He saw the tear

When he breathed

L

O

V

E

He knew her mind

When he stopped

 

Outside the mist rolled in

As ropes slipped off bollards

 

When he left

He heard her say

M

Y

When the door slammed

He hoped she said

L

O

V

E

When he heard

It was all in his mind

 

Outside the engine sta...

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The Artist [1]

In so few splashed acrylic lines

see Cornish fishing boats

take shape against the quay

the red hull and the yellow

 

See Cornish fishing boats

mirrored in the harbour sea

the red hull and the yellow

with the deep sky sunk below

 

Mirrored in the harbour sea

the jumble of masts and cranes

with the deep sky sunk below

and the distant sea above

 

The jumbl...

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Adamson Adrift

This piece, over twenty years old, came to me largely in a dream about being a poet.

 

Adamson Adrift

We sat on the wharf at East Balmain,

where the ferries make the Harbour

never still,

 

and Robert Adamson floated away

with grace on the violent tide,

as we looked on the streams

of the living

(as in air, we were in motion)

 

and in action, and relative calm

...

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