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. Advertisements
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.
the slack and swell surface of a saltmirror sea, salinity’s similitude and sublimity, a song for submersion. (a scintellant foam shimmers under a summer sun, that with foreign intensity cracks colour, scatters prisms. from the shadowy deep, a rhythm is risen)
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 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.
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.
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.