Monday, 25 August 2008

Migrant


Low tide. 
Miles of sand to wander
barefoot. 

Tides pull and drag me back here.
Fling me onto my home beach.

In all this space, 
under all this sky,
I listen
to silences
around each gust,
each distant wave breath. 

High in a waving cage of Marram 
that slices the view,
feet swallowed by warm yielding sand,
I scan the rippled and brushed shore.

Moving towards me,
is a word being written
on a pale page of sky.
Strange dance of wings. 
Fluid. 
Alone. 

Not a native.
Not one of the flock.
Swept here, ecstatic. 
Now blown off course.

My eyes capture your silhouette, 
your markings,
to check at home.

Still wondering about poetry and prose.......

Low tide. Miles of sand to wander, barefoot. Tides pull and drag me back here. Fling me onto my home beach. In all this space, under all this sky, I listen to silences around each gust, each distant wave breath.

High in a waving cage of marram that slices the view, feet swallowed by warm yielding sand, I scan the rippled and brushed shore.

Moving towards me is a word being written on a pale page of sky. Strange dance of wings. Fluid. Alone. Not a native. Not one of the flock. Swept here, ecstatic. Now blown off course. My eyes capture your silhouette, your markings, to check at home.