Offerings

you bring white
and blue, green
and red, orange
and pink
lids and straws
containers, rope
coffee cups
action figures
that I dump
on the shore
before retreating.

I return
for them hours later,
emptying the shoreline
swallowing them whole

offerings you do not want.

Nor do I.

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land meets sea meets river

land meets sea meets river
narrows to a thin snake,
penned in by sandbanks and creeks,
wriggling to the side, becoming
a pinpoint, nothing
quay quay jetty quay
docks jetties quay quay
in the mouth
a dance.

Names strange
to the tongue:
Polkerris, Polglaze, Polpey
pond, lake or well
Tregaminion, Trezare, Tregear
settlement or homestead
Penhale, Penpol, Penleath
hill or headland
Washing, Blackbottle, Killyvarder,
the sailors warning.

The Saint’s Way
meets the Coast Path
wriggling
along the changing coastline
disappearing
over the crease
of the folded page.

Sit With Me

Sit with me by the water’s edge
watch the world floating by
let the waves wash away
all those troubles and worries
talk to me about nothing much
just life and the colour
of the sky and sand
but please, just sit
with me, for a little while.

Skeletons

Perhaps, your skeleton lies
at the bottom of the ocean
and I am just trying to find it,

following a road with no map
plummetting into the darkness
falling into something I can’t fathom

like divers who explore the depths
of the ocean, less familiar
than the surface of the moon.

Ships rest on the seabed,
hulls perfectly preserved
not wanting to be found.

Darkness does not encourage
life to thrive, a vacuum
like the one that you left

behind, the day that you went
somewhere I cannot follow,
as mysterious as the ocean depths.

Salt Musings [prompt]

he stands by the water
early morning, alone
it is like glass
not a soul has stirred
these are the quiet moments
the golden ones.
It is already warm, the air
is still, calm
he listens, watches the gentle waves
hit the beach and retreat –
one
two
three
and then another set
it is music to his soul
a balm.
It is all he sees –
he is lost in the repetition, the methodicalness –
he owns it and yet it owns him
controls him
brings him back from the brink.

II
the storm rages.
he is gone now
the lonely figure
the waves beat at the beach
anger, power
beats down
hard
heavy
it doesn’t relent
the oasis is now a trap.

A Dark Pool (inspired by Laura Knight)

The wind spins around her. The hairs on her arms bristle – the heat of the summer has been lost. Her feet cling to the rocks, hardened and worn after a summer spent scrabbling over rocks, searching for shells and crabs.

This is the first time that she has been alone in a while and she relishes it.

The sea swirls around her and she stares into the dark pool where the water spins, crashing against the rocks, spraying her feet and making her shiver. She watches the water swirl, mesmerized, and then from beneath her dress she takes the letters and tears them into shreds, scattering them onto the waves, watching the ocean swallow them and the pieces disappear, like ash floating on the wind.

Perfect Day

I remembered that day today
floating in the ocean with you
as if we were in the Med
everything looked new
it was the perfect day
the sea was glassy
the sand burning underfoot
the sun in the sky
beating down and everything was still.
we ate fish and chips
on the seafront, my wet hair
drip
drip
ing
down my back
as the sun went down
and the heat of the day was gone
the sweet glow that we felt
began to trickle away
as if it had all been a dream.

The Wave Breaks

The wave breaks
on the shore
and rolls out as

 

life pauses for a moment
before continuing undisturbed;
the sea the master of its own destiny.

 

The wave breaks,
the world keeps on turning
regardless of the time or place

 

and where you and I are,
without a thought for the absurdity
of this thing we call life.

 

The wave breaks
as the sailor out at sea is rocked to sleep,
lulled into a sense of security.

 

He is alone, far away from anything
that might be called civilisation,
but he is at home.

 

The wave breaks
upon the shore
where I stand

 

feet buried in the sand
listening to the sound of water
rolling back and forth

 

as nature intended,
and I, I finally feel at one,
here on this beach, hundreds of miles away
where I stand alone.

 

Seaweed (Sea Stories)

it moves through the water like a monster

a dark mass under the surface

seen from the shore, an ominous sight

it weaves through the water

clinging to a rock, swaying

as the tide moves it in

and out, away from the shore

until it disappears from sight.

 

2017-04-29 16.42.35

 

Find out more about Sea Stories here.