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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.


the imperceptible weight of light, i learnt as a little girl that the only proper way to count time, in the middle of may, is with dandelion clocks. cheeks pink as sea thrift, wishes on the wind. perfectly proliferous pappus, parachute, plume, they’re at their prettiest in the evening, floating gold filament and feather. sometimes in the springtime, even just the sight of them feels a sweet and simple glimpse of forever.

the gods and the grasses (may diary)

we are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs
have bred forth, not pale solitary doves
but eagles golden-feathered, who do tower
above us in their beauty, and must reign
in right thereof; for ’tis the eternal law
that first in beauty should be first in might

somewhere between the gods and the grasses, the horse-chestnuts are flowering. the trees are all in candle, lemon curd and blush, and each inflorescence illuminates in the storm scattered light that rushes above us. brilliance brushes branches. eventually, each bloom will transform into their own conker, in the autumn, when the countryside once again grows cold, mist-covered. but, for now, it is May! and a showy clematis is climbing up the trellises of the thatched roof cottage, with the stained glass roses, to whom this garden belongs. and, at the bottom of the hill, if you will, you can scramble over a fence, hop over a stream, and then, you’ve found your way to the edge of the woods.

dandelion wishes, ginger beer in glass bottles, i’ve a picnic, and a patchwork blanket, which in truth, is looking a little worse for wear, in need of some repair. the sky’s vermeil and vapour, shadow and shapes of a spectacular scale, and so this canopy of leaves become shelter. i lie down, and lose hours. the bluebells have all gone to seed, but all around me even the grasses, if you look closely enough you’ll see, have blossomed silver and wispy minute feathery petals. it’s almost as if they’ve each captured a piece, or a sliver, of moonlight, fallen to the forest floor last night. silver, viridian, unfurling ferns and moss. there’s a gentle, but not imperceptible, strength, to all of this, the delicate wild strawberries and the forget-me-nots too. the sounds of a springtime shower gifting life and hope anew.

silver bells and drooping stars

the fading constellations are far away freckles, the dawn stretches the night’s skin thin, draws the curtains on the last of the cascading lyrids. and then, a circling chariot. the light turns to amber, dripping gold, it’s a honey-speckled morning. the clouds are silver lined, a revolving speedwell rising.

i’ll bundle blackthorn, hang hawthorn at the door, light and dark brought together and then tethered, perhaps they’ll bless the coming year. their petals are as delicate as mulberry silk, they’ll tear between my fingertips. i’ve silver bells, and drooping stars, and the wind is carrying along with it May, which is now weaving its whispering way through the wavering wisteria that has draped itself all over my neighbours house.

sunshine, showers. an oak leaf umbrella offers supposed shivering shelter from the rain. i spot bluebells like lanterns strewn about in the shade. do you see how springtime sings life into colour, pulls at the seams of things, stirs skeletons from slumber? puddles and gutters become silvery streams and tributaries, or else tiny swirling storming seas, scattering blossoms coming together as islands. there’s the drowsy-sweet scent of lilac, too, like pan’s song for syringa, it’s the surest sign that everything extraordinary is here, and that incomprehensible beauty is always near.