Spume, 4 March

Back to the snowy interface, an anonymous sky to begin,
the only birds silver, apart from Welcome Swallows singing
from Old Man’s Hat, I just can’t see them. There’s been
another rock fall, its snug hollow is filled with boulders.

The raucous waves spray curls of spindrift, demanding
the present, demanding to be heard, the wild ocean
in a pretence that it’s at the centre of the world
until our star lifts and spills the ruth of light.

The spume trembles, shakes and jostles, shuffling enmasse
like Emperor Penguins, some individuals toboggan back
to the rim, a sudden gurgle as a channel opens by my feet,
A small Ghost Crab is making a run for the rocky vertebrae.

I get caught by another thick wave, struggle to stand,
the ground is shifting from under our feet. The curlew again,
stepping along the edge with its reflection for company
from a medieval bestiary, looking for food. I’m sorry.

Then to Nyambaga

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