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Κλεεια

the swift-winged summer is stealing the last of the wisteria for itself. with cleia’s consent, the rain, replaced by a rising heat, relents, and the sunlight, now, is as bright as my neighbour’s staccato and soaring laughter. in the garden, the cosmos is collecting dew drops, each flower crafting for itself a cluster-crown of constellatory crystal. the iris pseudacorus are blazing apotropaic blades, the fritillary petals tessellate.

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honeysuckle, smoke

the city in june smells of honeysuckle and smoke. i wander along bloomfield road, huddled under an umbrella, and sidestep the first of two shattered mirrors. i hop over a series of (increasing in size) muddy, murky puddles. there are blue stars, and spiral buds, petals in patterns, and i’m almost certain now that flowers have learnt a language larger than any of ours. rows of cars are stuck in traffic, and their passengers are losing patience, you can see it written on some of their faces. there are clouds of rising vapour, poppy petals tearing like tissue paper, and a blackbird sits atop a pile of red bricks. it watches everything, for a little time, all of us together, quickly tilts its head, as if sharply considering something, and then sets off, in quivering flight. a rare light, this afternoon, and it’s ever so beautiful.

diary 24.06.19

a sweeping wind, and the shuddering grass. watch glossy-bodied beetles scuttle between buttercups, they’re darting from dark to dark, gifting glimpses of golden shell. balance forget-me-nots on fingertips, your favourites are the flowers coloured a slight rosy lilac, like a midsummer sky at twilight. the field in which you sit is surrounded by a tangle of stinging nettles, and sticky star cleavers, too, tall trees with speckled trunks.

quodlibet

june afternoon, auricupride, copper and gold combined, a pouring light that crystallises everything it settles on, petal and penumbra. the seconds are stretching, the summer is singing, and i’ll go walking and gather its grace notes.

a silver willow dips its emerald arms, pendalogues, sends patterns rippling in still water. the lily of the valley adorns itself now in lustrous pale green armour. the campanula bells are each their own ancient mirror. june’s a crescendoing chorus of colour. quodlibet.

a storm of ships

a mermaid’s tears, from glass and sand.
a harp pulled from a siren’s hand.
the wind’s echoing thrills, as if mystic sighs
raised from the depths of a sailor’s eyes,
from a place beyond the touch of death,
above the rise and fall of breath.
and it’s boundless deep. it’s a circling wave.
it’s the pattern and plunge of the rhythm that gave
me my floating song, to hold close to my lips.
a seaward dream, and a storm of ships.

πέλαγος

diary: 06.13.19

the day’s first rays are bronze-tipped arrows
breaking the shallow strip of narrow
night that’s left. and the sea is a riddle
and the tides are all rhyming. the ocean’s a mirror
reflecting in me a prolonged space,
a watery song of some fathomless place.

 

dusk sparks the stars

a robin to lead through the watermeadows.
digitalis obscura, hiding in shadows.
damselflies darting, raindrops catching
on leaves. streams that lead to the sea.

padina pavonica. peacocks tail.
these june days soar and then settle pale.
seagulls squalling, sirens calling
the waves come crashing, crescent, curling

tides composing, boats returning
home, the sun then flickers, flaring
so the spindle turns, now with perfect measure
it splits, and sinks into serrated water

and dusk sparks the stars.

amphidromic

the rain falls as sheets and shivers,
the scrape and pound of wave on stone.
the wind is whistling through the harbour,
halyards clattering, anchors thrown.

*

a stormy june day diary, the beach:

plunge, spill, surge.
crescent, curl, submerge.
the sun is climbing cliffs and clearing mists and
the sea is promising to make you more alive than anything else.
an iribarren breaking into beauty.
and the cormorants know it, without needing to be told,
they’re at home in the waves.