1

Brained by fronds and branches, crowned
with leafage slipped down over the eyes,
that's how I stumble on this empty beach round midday,
aware of the other ones bending away
beyond headlands, and how these
histories of slow swell lapping on shorelines
make themselves felt as so many mild concussions,
numberless whisperings to a tired mind,
and how at sea defences, harbour wall or bay
smelling an air of fish-work and wrack
I follow the paths by gleaming black anchors,
nets, the floats, and hear dogs bark –
there being that many ways to feel confined.

 

2

So as the ocean
mitigates silences
waves flash with daylight
piercing through cloud tails,
we're in an in-between
chasing our children,
the summer still ending
without a finale;
that's why I wander
all down the tide-mark,
jetsam and driftwood
dried in the sun,
and why, understanding
how it's not possible,
count starfish or shell-shard,
accepting acceptance
given alternatives –
there being none.

 

3

High time, even if I don't say it enough,
now, come what may, as sightings of these
cormorant sentinels up on a cliff
from a pleasure craft in calmer seas
or the gull's wing flexing above
raised fingers, its red-tipped beak, its eyes
trained towards food two sisters leave
on ripple and wave are examples of...
High time, even if I don't say it enough.

 

Copyright © Peter Robinson, 2003