Poetry Blogs (2019, tide)
harbour entrance swell
above the beach
the scraping rattle
millions of stones
sucked off the beach
returning to the sea
beside the harbour wall
breaking in foam
onto the shingle
the vast pull
of the receding sea
the undertow of sound
grey brown sea
under a blue sky...
Monday 25th February 2019 1:55 pm
In the sun's mid-day heat
I see the tall field grasses flow, swell
and come towards me in waves
surging before the day's wind
the seed-head spume constantly bowing
seems to fall on the field strand where I stand.
The rhythmic onslaught of the waves
continues through the long afternoon -
a tide of wind-driven swells and rollers
always flowing to my feet, w...
Thursday 21st February 2019 12:34 pm
It was all in her eyes
When he said
He saw the tear
When he breathed
He knew her mind
When he stopped
Outside the mist rolled in
As ropes slipped off bollards
When he left
He heard her say
When the door slammed
He hoped she said
When he heard
It was all in his mind
Outside the engine sta...
Sunday 9th December 2018 12:35 pm
This piece, over twenty years old, came to me largely in a dream about being a poet.
We sat on the wharf at East Balmain,
where the ferries make the Harbour
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...
Sunday 29th October 2017 2:21 pm
Low ripples creep in eager waves,
Reclaiming grains of wind-blown sand,
To lay them flat within the damp, cemented matrix,
By degree, each one,
In exposed space,
Again with water weight,
Where fine currents caress and roll,
The grains that had once been free.
Sunday 22nd January 2017 9:22 pm
And so I walked the full extent of the tide,
To where once-fronds of bladder wrack lie,
Fallen branches where air balloons find their specific gravity awry,
A rippling sandscape sculpt by rolling water,
Carpeted with greening algal strands plumose in the quiescent remaining pools,
Seagulls at the edge,
Scouring newly exposed beach,
Beneath the dark-faced island.
Saturday 21st January 2017 6:14 pm
A full moon, and the tide swollen by rain;
Rain lashing on the window, wild as rage -
My pen is stirring on the unspoilt page
In scribble circles, feeling round this pain.
Like tunnels leading deeper than my mind,
Or ropes in hopeless tangles, loosely curled,
Sprawling intestines looped around the world
My pen describes; this pain is ill-defined.
Thursday 22nd March 2012 11:46 am