Wreck
It begins as a thin black line
appearing out of nowhere
thickening in the sand
The shore is a trickster
seeming flat
until you join it
piece it together with your perspective
Black shapes rise
out of a deep pool
forming a vessel by being seen
Full of oyster shells and starfish
The boat’s belly
is defined by its ribs
This low tide is an inhale
Just time enough
to make a story from the pieces
It could be a tale of loss and ruin
of storms gouging ships
out of the sea
Or perhaps a parable
to remind us that an ark
is made, not found.
Floods and Thorns
The dunes are flooded, sky-grey
pools seeping along paths,
gullies overflowing, all the sand
sodden, black stalks damp.
Bodies of buckthorn catch us
on their needle-points but
they are pale and weak, softening
their defences as if their roots
are letting them go. Inside
and out we find our way
between the floods that could
drown us and thorns that protect
so adamantly they hurt. Yet ease
is near, down in the dark and out
beyond the hectic skies; the calm
strength of a wise world.
Ainsdale 14th February
Ainsdale 14th February
