a couple of cabbage white butterflies rise in spirals around one another, and about the blackberry thickets, which are blossoming, sprawling. the july sky is darkening, it’s promising eventual thunder, the summer sounds of slant strings snapping. but, for now, and before and under all of that, the cat’s speckled eyes are glinting, like hot sunlight, and there are shivering torch-tip petals. the wheat fields are turning a papery yellow.
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.
1. scent of drowsy-sweet lilac, and salt on my lips. a sailor’s arms, covered in sinking ships, black ink schooners, and furious sea monsters wrapping tentacled arms around his wrists. the sea and the stars move in measured procession, a whispering idea, in a walled garden. each contrived celestial oscillation, just a note in a plunging eternal rhythm.
diary, last week of february, 2019. catch alsophila aescularia in a mason jar. cirrocumulus clouds above you, baby’s breath in your hair. the sky is almost the same colour now as the persian speedwell that’s scattered about everywhere, and a bumblebee is hovering sleepily about bethlehem sage. it’s the first you’ve seen this year. set out a teaspoon of sugar water. an unusually mild february. everything is waking up early. * the sun is on your shoulders. you’ve jasmine petals in your pockets, and winter bells helleborus, too. watch as a blackbird plucks red berries from a holly bush, one, after another, after another. ** “there are snowdrop valleys and swiss mountain trains and by-the-wind sailors and sweet peas sprouting second leaves, there are children with clattering cans chasing bad spirits back into the ocean, the blackthorns are blossoming and they’re guarded by…” – what are you going to do? *** the sea is not a surface. you have called the gods by their names, and now they form within us.
i crossed the great western deserts to get here, and now i am standing on the shore of some semiotic, or synodic, sea. veiled grey horizon, fine mists rising and separating me from the sonorous. there’s a scattering of sandbanks, shoals, islets, atolls. and something’s hiding, behind them, it’s not all oceanic expanse. i think sound is emergence, it urges a certain sort of person to dip their toes into that primordial water.