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. Advertisements
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.
sunday morning, silver pebbles. the rhododendrons are raining petals now the dawn’s a racing stream of light as the stars go sailing out of sight.
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.
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