Crossing

here, the sand is soft underfoot, a far cry
from the pebbles of my childhood beaches,
where the shingle is stacked tall, a rocky bank to run down,
the stones hard, feet sinking,
wincing
squealing
from car to water, standing at the water’s edge, watching the waves
roll in and out.

here, the golden sand

stretches for miles, the water

blue and green, a world away from the grey, muddy water where once
we floated on our backs like starfish, the sun still warm at gone seven
and it felt like another place –

I am home now, here,
where I have crossed the bridge between two worlds
and where my wings are set free and the weight of the past has flown.

here, the sand is soft underfoot.

my feet sink down, rooting me here.

Poem Scribbled on a Clifftop

Spring sun beats down
on my face, waves crash
below
it’s easy to kid ourselves
that summer is nearly here
as we go barefoot in the water.
Up here, the wind is on
my face
my shadows lengthen
seagulls screech up above
and out at sea the water
rocks back and forth.
There is still a chill in the air
and two hopeful surfers bob
out at sea, watching the waves
waiting for the perfect break.
I climb and climb
Until the people on the sand
Are like pin heads.

On the Road

Another road, another unfamiliar car park

on the road again

destination unknown,

journey to be decided.

 

On the road again,

with a car full of gear

and anticipation in the air.

 

On the road again

with sand between my toes

and sea water at my feet.

Roads

We’re all travelling on separate

roads, heading to different places

colliding, crossing paths at intervals

and spinning in orbits

that are the same

for a little while.

But we keep on spinning,

closer, further away from one

another into paths

we cannot speak or know

of but we just keep on

keeping on, moving, turning

our own paths and journeys

to follow and end games to meet.

Summer

holds promises we cannot see

the dream of new beginnings

long evenings and warm days

stretching out in front of us

full of hope, expectations

and long empty days

ready for potential

unwritten canvases ready

to be filled.

 

But then it starts to run away

faster than we can

keep up with it

and too soon, we’re mourning

the dying days and the loss

of all that time

which once stretched

out

in

front

of

us.

 

THE PILGRIM

He holds a rucksack in one hand
as if it’s an inconvenience,
something he wishes to be rid of.
He leans against a wall,
just another visitor, another passer through.
His footsteps don’t linger there
no imprint is made
to say that he was there.
He is just passing through –
another wanderer,
searching for something.

Roots

I am rooted in the earth there

growing from the soil.

It’s in my blood

my roots are there

and do not move,

while my heart and mind

wanders from beach to cliff,

craving salt water

wherever I go.

Postcards from Home

The Freshwater co-op car park

is a long way from home.

Everything is these days –

home is a distant thing,

a concept I can’t wrap

my head round, no matter how hard I try.

 

Every rolling field, combine rumbling

by, every hay bale and tractor

every pebble on the beach

is a postcard from home

that I can’t ignore.

 

An old tattered paperback,

words jumping off the page

familiar characters and faces on the screen

are like a blanket wrapping

themselves around me, linking me

back to home, an unwritten

postcard that doesn’t need

to be spoken aloud.

PILGRIMS

They returned to the site,
still the same after all these years.
No one else would know they were pilgrims
for they wore tatty shorts and t-shirts, clutched
backpacks and sun hats,
and looked like any other tourist
that passed through. But for them
it was something else – this pilgrimage
that they had made, back, into the past,
a time that had long passed
even if the place still remained
seemingly untouched.

I Was Here

 

To be the first to walk across the golden

sand in the morning, to leave a footprint

pressed into the sand like a memo

I was here

as the sun beams down

and the quiet, golden silence

of the morning is a secret held

by me alone, imprinted on my mind,

my shoes dangling at my side

sand clinging to my wet feet,

and I wish, that I was there again.