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 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)
a sweeping wind, and the shuddering grass. watch glossy-bodied beetles scuttle between buttercups, they’re darting from dark to dark, gifting glimpses of golden shell. balance forget-me-nots on fingertips, your favourites are the flowers coloured a slight rosy lilac, like a midsummer sky at twilight. the field in which you sit is surrounded by a tangle of stinging nettles, and sticky star cleavers, too, tall trees with speckled trunks.
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.
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.
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.