TIDES
The North Sea cannot sleep
waves float across its shores
they dig into barnacles, they vault
over steps lost on wailing sands.
Waves slither amongst the shells
they prowl around the driftwood,
they fly aroused into dreams
pulled taut by the Arctic wind.
In
My Dream of Absolute
I
am in a dream
I
am
a flame
I see my home
as the lawgiver’s lease
comes to an end.
I
am
confused
by buds and wild fungi
I can taste the leaves
in the blue arboretum.
I
am
an imprint…
I can hear his violin
in the baroque grassland
of imitation colours.
I
am
in a barouche
across the barley fields
under a riot of blue
I can smell summer –
I
am
with our dingo
I hover in the mirror
of my dream into the absolute -
And
I fall.
The Weather Forecast
How
should I dress
to
walk the dogs
in
Wayland Wood?
my glassy winter clothes
or summer dripping wet
ones?
umbrellas, boots or
galoshes?
perhaps a parasol?
How
should I dress
to
walk the dogs
in
Wayland Wood?
ghosts on satellite
images
on the TV weather
forecast
a starched sky for now
plastic stickers on the
map
How
should I dress
to
walk the dogs
in
Wayland Wood?
the presenter holds on
wailing hot and pounding
feet
on now melting tarmac
filtered cold, clasped
and twisted
How
should I dress
to
walk the dogs
in
Wayland Wood?
skater in the night or in
a day dream
innocent destinations on
a map
the weather?
just another thought!
How
should I dress
to
walk the dogs
in
Wayland Wood?
The
Bonfire
The town was quiet. There was no light at the windows
of the houses. The flowers along the waterfront were dying. The pavement cafes
were long closed.
Intense buzzing was coming from the Chateau, renovated
by Mr & Mrs Candlebody the previous summer.
Genevieve feared the dark. Her parents had to promise
her a list of gifts to persuade her to join them to The Candlebody’s party for
she did not get on with their children. She disliked them intensely.
When they arrived at the Chateau, wide-eyed, she
measured the yard with the pile of wood up to the portcullis. She felt
breathless with all her five years old.
When the invited crowed – the very good spilled from
the capital and the best the department could offer - lit the fire, Genevieve
let out one of those rare primordial screams that one hears in films or when
animals are ritually slaughtered.
She was louder than the burning wood on the bonfire.
The windows of the Chateau shuddered and broke into pieces. A shame as they had
the original glass and had survived the fury of the French Revolution!
The leaves on the trees fell and a wild storm began to
torment as it never did in that area, ever.
On the Sands
‘It’s irresistible!’
Julia sums up as she takes in the still, oily heat that criss-crosses the
surface of the waters at Southwold and beyond.
‘Let’s go and sample the buzzing of the beach’ suggests Zak. ‘If we’re lucky we might get a deckchair.’
He utters this as he considers the stacks of deckchairs that are breaking the
view of the multi coloured huts that ripple with the waves. ‘Though, what does your mother want to do?’
‘Shush! She can hear you,
her hearing is very acute!’ and I touch Zak on his lips. From the first floor
balcony that opens onto the beach, I spy seagulls that cut the air in sharp
loops beneath the eyeglass of the sun.
‘Mum, will you join us on
the beach?’ I ask as I move away from the folds of the curtains.
‘No need to shout, dear!
I can hear you perfectly well. It’s too hot for me. It’s nearly midday. I shall
sit in the armchair here and watch all through my binoculars.’
The hours flow on. With her binoculars, she can spot the
pier and the clock shaped as a bathtub
and hear it strike on the hour and on the half-past, its wheels rotated by
propelled water.
Images are rolling on.
No turning back for mums dressed in the colours of the
azure while
their offspring gulp
chilled fizzy water. Exhausted on opened deckchairs experienced dads sail
siestas as the sky blushes even stronger. Further on, it’s business as usual.
At the end of the pier amateur anglers check the horizon for moving shadows and
hidden waves.
From the inside of the open window, a hover-fly tries to
escape. Julia’s mother attempts to stand up, but falls back into the armchair.
Outside, far away, the sky is weighing its blue over the deckchairs in animal
print, over the maze of mums, dads and kids.
Julia’s mother cannot see Julia and Zak, who have not
made her a grandmother. She would have liked to be able to shop for buckets,
spades, and fish and chips against battleships of seagulls.
The sea salt and the smell of people waft from the beach.
She feels streaky and she feels cold. Her right hand
lifts momentarily, then the light turns blind. Her eyes stare into darkness.
Her dreams have faded away from her mind, like everything else.
The hover-fly lingers at the edge of the glass and flies
away.
M.C. Gardner
