Wednesday 17 January 2018

12 apostles (latest edit):


Twelve in silence stand
eight under the sun
four in shadow.

Resolute, they look to the sea
no matter the time of day
the season at hand
the lunar or solar cycle
the stars that spin above.

Twelves sentinels to guard
eight under the sun
four in shadow.

Sand, stone, ragged grass and steadfast
silence within the relentless boom
defend the indefensible
against salt, wind and ocean.

They meet the sea,
whose waves crash like wild Picts
against Hadrian’s wall, foam tossed high
to sparkle before the fall, soundless
even as they grow incomplete.

Twelve apostles silent all day,
eight under the sun
four in shadow.

when I was a boy I stood upon one,
the arch to cross still existed then
and, in the wild wind and sea spray battle,
grasped that the world would always be
greater than reality.

Now sixty and only eight remain,
four have surrendered grain by grain
into the great journey of sea and sand
to find themselves never whole again
but particles of a new land
in a distant horizon
unnamed until mangroves seal the fragments into soil.

In memory twelve remain, silent, frozen
in a time before language and dance
when the world, lately formed,
hung itself out to dry
like the wings of a newly birthed dragonfly.

They guard still, the twelve;
eight under the sun
four in shadow.



Tuesday 16 January 2018

mere men: (edit 1)


In the sixties
they belonged to the sea,
each day as the sun broke free
to warm the holiday tents
and steal sleep with brewing heat,
waves beckoned from beyond warming sand
calling the tanned bodies to submerge,
to forget the land and dream
of life in the deep green underneath.

Now in their sixties
they visit the sea at the end of every year
but where once bodies stayed
until maternal voices called them back to upright life
now the water chills too swiftly
and hardly having entered the green
their feet return to the land;
bound above now
seeing the days tumble into years,
the memories of the child,
like mist that rises in the morning
then vanishes when the sun
burns away the dreams of the night
to bring forth each day’s worked for truth.

mere men:


In the sixties
they belonged to the sea,
each day as the sun broke free
to warm the canvas tent
and steal sleep with brewing heat,
waves beckoned from beyond warming sand
calling the tanned bodies to submerge,
to forget the land and dream
of life in the deep green underneath.

Now in their sixtieth decade
they visit the sea at the end of every year
but where once bodies stayed
until maternal voices called them back to upright life
now the water chills too swiftly
and hardly having entered the green
their feet return to the land;
bound above now
seeing the days tumble into years,
the memories of the child,
like mist that rises in the morning
then vanishes when the sun,
burn away with the dreams of the night
to bring forth each day’s worked for truth —

age diminishes the ability to imagine
faster than any neuron or tissue,
shrinks the psyche before
it dwindles the mind.

Sunday 14 January 2018

The 12 Apostles:


Twelve in silence stand,
eight under the sun
and four in shadow.

Resolute, they look to the sea
no matter the time of day
the season at hand
the lunar or solar cycle
the stars that spin above.

Twelves sentinels to guard,
eight under the sun
and four in shadow.

In meetings between sea and apostle,
foam tossed high as, like wild Picts
against Hadrian’s wall,
waves crash against each of them, they
in prayer, contemplate the fury.

With sand, stone, ragged grass,
and steadfast silence in the ferocity of sound
they defend the indefensible
against salt, wind and ocean.

Twelve apostles silent all day,
eight under the sun
and four in shadow.

when I was a boy I stood upon one,
the arch to cross still existed then
and, in the wild wind and sea spray battle,
grasped that the world would always be
greater than reality.

Now sixty and only eight remain,
four have surrendered grain by grain
into the great journey of sea and sand
to find themselves never whole again
but particles of a new land
in a distant horizon
unnamed until mangroves seal the fragments into soil.

In memory twelve remain, silent, frozen
in a time before language and dance
when the world, lately formed,
hung itself out to dry
like the wings of a newly birthed dragonfly.

They guard still, the twelve;
eight under the sun
and four in shadow.



Near the dinosaur caves, Inverloch 2018.

Peering down Inverloch’s cliff face, gives witness
to Ocean’s rage — spurned mistress,
She once blanketed Earth, what gossips
single cells could tell in that ancient bedding down;
the steam, the explosions, the settling of mountains
until the two sated lovers rested; Ocean
unaware, as she felt the moon tug her to sleep,
Earth cooled, slipped away in the night,
forever since greets the sun —
now foe against the land, Ocean
tosses white tears high into the sky,
butterflies of salt and foam that glitter in the light
then fall back into the whole.

What strikes most looking at this site
is that once this was a river; millions of years ago
dinosaur wandered the banks, chewed through ferns
(where seaweed now trails in green tales untold)
while shaking the soil with feet larger
than a large man’s large head. This tidal-time of day
denies a visit to caves hoping to see imprints
of colossal feet, the caves are submerged,
having listened again to ocean’s liquid tirade.

Earth resists yet below there are thousands of rocks
rounded by Ocean’s relentless words, testament
to the places where He has lost momentary arguments.
The dinosaur bones remain despite Earth
having moved on… then forgetfully He turned around
and found Ocean’s rage as a greeting —
She never ceases, never lacks the thirst
to lick with corrosive tongue a million times or more
bones left behind… Ocean does not forget.

Tuesday 9 January 2018

Upright Ape at Inverloch – summer 2018:


Standing here at the edge,
the wind throwing grains of sand into my flesh
as if I am the vacant space the universe
explodes upon,

the sound of the ocean,
unending howl of creation
as land is torn, broken down,
reformed in places unseen.

I remember when I was sixteen,
innocent except in the mastery of the pain
that sixteen years had yielded,

beauty seen
as if from behind a window;
always there and not held,
touched but swift to fade,
like a snowflake beneath the heat
of skin and desire.

The water burying my feet in homage
to time’s unending carving of the tomb
for flesh and bone to be hollowed out and found
in some distant time, perhaps then lifted
to some stranger’s lips, lung-wind
blown to make music of all that I was once
and has been forgotten.

Life — the ocean of individual droplets,
useless unless considered
as a single form coming and going,
changing the world, reorganising it,
breaking it, and — if wisdom wins —
repairing ourselves and the destruction
we bring for some future generation
of bone blowers, their hands, each of five digits,
cradling all that we have held.