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. Advertisements
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.
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 …
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 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, …
the sun followed me to where apollo, with his lyre, stood guard over the old market square. magnolia stellata, wrapped in white paper, confetti collecting in the cracks between cobblestones. stary rynek, the edge of springtime. and i watched, as the morning sky, which had been morphidae (i mean to say it was black at the edges) broke into a dawn that spilt ribbons of light like they were blue silk caught in the wind. and there were pale sunbeams pouring, over this silver, silent, world.
under a cupola and a willow tree i watch whispering couples holding hands and walking quietly around cloister gardens. all i can hear is the sound of the wind, and from time to time, sunday service cathedral choirs singing latin hymns, or else chanting their sacred devotions, under starry vaults and sails. for a moment, i’m crying, it’s surprising. in the courtyard, the cherry plums are small, and crooked, sharp branches sparkling with sap, like frosted sugar crystals, petals as snow.
a walk in the park, a picnic on the hill, there are bluebells growing in the shade, birds building nests where the willow meets the water. the wind still has a touch of winter to it, i think, pale white cherry plum petals falling like snow. i lie down on the grass, daisies and dandelions dotted about, they’re drinking up the sun. the touch of now-not-quite-as-cold earth against crinkled coat against chiffon the colour of april rain clouds against bare skin. i drink the last of my karak tea, pull the hat over my eyes, see speckled light through woven straw sparkling, and once more, allow my thoughts their drifting, as they might decide. to love and loss and longing, and then to language and what might lie beyond all that, key to the cage or else divine diaphanous veil or maybe it’s all just easy enchantment. i’m so very uncertain about a lot, these days, but one thing i do know is that if i don’t have faith in there being some sort of …