How to become invisible

Fish

Out on the final fade of the jetty

as the tide falls away

night glides in

without touching the sides.

It covers a fisherman

blurs him

and his silver flinch of a rod

into a slim smudged line

against a blue pink sky

the colour of forget-me-nots

unable to make up their mind.

A moment later

only the fish see him.

Swim

Wade out

black as a silhouette

into messy sun scribble

dip shoulders

into molten gold on rapid boil

coat yourself in glitter shimmer

like a clubber under water

dive below that cresting breaker

merge with wave curve

into texture

vibrato greys

hatch and snatch

with blue metal.

Seaweed slogans

Hurled high on the beach, seaweed lies twisted like poetic lines hurled from the churning chaos of the night before. I walk their meander. Their wayward threads remind me of a half heard song I once tried to capture in hands too swift to ever harbour it.

I want to soar above the beach, trace this pathway mile by mile, follow the phrases east to west, copy their shapes down onto a pristine page, like they might have secrets to tell if they could be pieced together. (Sorry - can't make the photos clickable today.)

Equinox

Camomile camouflage

breeze blur birdsong.

Final fling of a Summer that fades fast around the edges of each night. They say that night equals day this time of year. But I'm not so sure.

I am watching the shrinking of days, the collapse of light on evenings that lean in too soon. It's all we talk about as we dig the last potatoes from the warm dusty earth and cupboard them in the dark.

Seafood

Out in the bare bones of picked bare, he clamps the mussels with ruthless claw on the ribcage of the burnt out pier, drags them from their bright seaweed bed. He gorges in the double dare world of mirror sand, flinches as stranded ribbons of weed breeze in behind the shield of his shoulder and warp beneath him in the inky fluid of shadows that ebb and flow, erratic. 

Weapon split. Spat out. Blue shards fall into the shallows. Broken jewels. The wind bites in at his wing, drags the feathers into odd shapes, spiked like a warning. Sharing is not an option.

Crow.

Who me?

Well, it made me laugh. 

The company of stones

The weathered wood has the company of stones

held in place

until the sculptress returns.

She likes to sit back and let her pieces evolve

in the bleach of sudden sun

in the sand blast of gale.

She loves to see where weed will hold tight

where rust will stain like a weeping eye

where splinter is moulded back to curve.

She leaves her studio

in progress

returns to work 

under the cover of pounding waves.

Colour feast

I just love these colours!

Now that everything on the plot is fading fast with the cold nights and mornings, it's been even more of a treat to be able to pick a lovely box of colour like this.

There are still raspberries to be had and the last of the courgettes. They have been pretty good this year, but I must admit, I'm getting a bit tired of Ratatouille!

Anyway, runner beans are one of my all time favourite vegetables, so guess what's cooking tonight? These dwarf pumpkins will make an interesting talking point on the living room window ledge and I might even carve one this year.

A first this year, is Sloe Gin - when's the party? The hedgerows around the plot are just beautiful at the moment. The leaves are starting to turn and they make a gorgeous backdrop for the blackberries, damsons and sloes that hang heavy on the branches. Too good to leave any longer, the sloes are now in a jar in the dark.

Dawn, Sunday

Pale yellow sky, hung on a low tide morning. 

Slow gull glide, longer than my out breath.

Hint of grey rain.

Four swans. 

They steer, level through the dark stick legs of the pier.

Slick. Pristine.

Yellow buoys idle on their chains.

Red caged lamp, still blinks to the night.

Walking home, words catch my eye. 

Almost a poem.

Batman

Why is the kite-surfer dressed as Batman, complete with face mask and drenched cloak?

It doesn't seem to slow him down. Soaring for 5, 6, breathtaking 7 second flights. The wind pulls him higher above the breakers. When he comes close to shore, I'm sure I hear his theme tune. 

Of course I don't have my camera today! 

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Play music, or know others who do?

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For the buzz on music practising, or the lack of it.