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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.


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.


setina irrorella

sat next to a charming but very definitely out of tune piano, one i’ve not played since childhood, and clutching a cup of coffee, i watch through the rattling windows dawn spill its lambent light, steeping sleeping seaside hills, bluish suffusion sweeping over this coastal town, and all of its fishing boats, georgian villas, people in plastic overalls already hunting periwinkles, by the churning water. now the climbing sun is stealing the longest lingering shadows from the little garden, where dew moths, setina irrorella, hang from blades of grass, where the daisies are all closed up, petal tips touched blush, and yellow irises circle the pond. heart pulled from the seabed, suddenly into flowers.


from the lighthouse, to the harbour
a melody pulled from the deep, spilling over
as if it were mist. it pours and unwraps
apotelesma. an anchor-line snaps.

you’re in full sail now. it’s a strange, sidereal song,
this faraway rhythm to which you belong
still, the cormorant dives, still the seagull, it sings
its coruscant chorus, plucks aeolian strings.


the june sky at dawn is dewy-skinned
son of poseidon, celestia
sea thrift and rust and a salt-scent wind
whispering through the wisteria

which rattles the driftwood draped over the door
son of poseidon, celestia
bleached white by the sun, and brought here from the shore
whispering through the wisteria

now the may-shade flowers, under harp string showers
son of poseidon, celestia
turn transparent at the touch of these trembling hours
whispering through the wisteria



passeri. a solitary and swooping old world sparrow swirls and swerves above me. it’s a swift and darting sky dance, around and about and sometimes through towers and torrents, sun-gold. this is may’s final extravagance, this setting crowning of these gentle hills that slope with grace into glassy water.

soon will come the tumbling twilight. soon, too, these ancient, wisest, grotto trees, with their jade green leaves, which at first i thought new but in truth prove near-perpetual, in the salt-scent cooling and perfumed breeze, will transform, turn to shaking showering fountains. and their blossoms, having finally learnt their wealth, will, as pretty and as pale as sea pearls, and no longer bound, becalmed, but as if they, now, were sailboats returning home, they’ll break free of their branches’ binding, and this is their becoming, i suppose, their embracing of this bravest descent into a lower, brambly, harbour, home. and then, summer.

peridot and petal (diary)

bank holiday monday, and the sky appears to me almost splintered sphere, thin and streaked with high spears. i watch them twist and twirl and pierce. the softer, lower, clouds collect, too, and they look a little like sweet alyssum, lobularia maritima, countless clustered bunches of the smallest white and wheeling flowers, perfuming perhaps that palest blue, touching transparency before falling in showers.


above all that, the veiled stars. treasure chest filled with jewels over-spilling, or else many-coloured and shattered stained glass, cathedral window broken, its splendour scattered now all about a sanctuary where the incense is silver vapour and outside the walls, rhythm and pulse stretch darkness forever.


coffee steam, and two doves, deferential they’ll drink from the bird bath in the garden. again, the laburnum is lapping up the last of the light, stabs of gold and pouring flame for petals, peridot leaves and drops of sun, each a gentle proclamation, or perhaps a harp string plucked. fireflies caught and charged with beauty.


multa minuta modis multis per inane videbis
corpora misceri radiorum lumine in ipso


the laburnums are draped in golden chains,
yesterday’s ash washes away with the rain.
spring lies beneath you now.
and the night is silverpoint, and starlight.
and the roses in the garden, are constellated, bone-white,
as your skin turns to mother-of-pearl and pale flower
and your eyes, sparkling-dark, are drinking the hour.