On a time called today
I write not to forget. It
builds like accumulating rust
On a time called today
I write not to forget. It
builds like accumulating rust
bleeding into the white outline
of a pink china amulet.
Today!
Felt like heat in snow,
orange and blue together
radiating from our hands like chance.
Thwarted rain,
I have never been so battered,
by wind and you, by words.
Felt you in the cloud break--
grey, white, brightening. Like a dream,
tomorrow comes trudging
in boots too short for floods.
From a notch in a tree tunnel
spurts a short path of scratchy grit.
It leads to shore, breaking
waves high as piled stone stacks.
After six steps
we’re enclosed by its c-shaped wall.
The foam flew up then-- foam that can be anything.
Foam that takes light apart by its lengths and
shows you each band.
Orange and blue and
pink. Blood rushed to your fingertips,
wet, westerly, biting wind.
The weathering fell to one side,
to the left and beat, unrelenting.
The cormorant dips
below your eyes,
below the surface of the sea. And sure,
we slink on through a day worth remembering.
Like one strike of lightning,
a storm.
We watched the grey wall deflect the waves--
churned muggy, an atmosphere,
frothing, found only at home.
The heavy air seemed to keep you hanging
here. The cloud separates,
and you might see, borne from the blue,
a slash of silver breaking up the grey,
stormed sea for a moment. And colours
dotted, mottled, bubbled across the
metal railing of the promenade
too cold for touch.
I don’t remember how it ends
but I remember calling home! Seeing the orange street glow,
tracing our starting steps. In the kitchen,
full, unpicked light washed you to watercolour. Turned
to one side, to the window, to the source
and from your eyes,
a great blue.