Cornwall’s lovely, a recent holiday proved that to be the case (again).
Staying at a house overlooking a harbour, early mornings watching rain, sun, sea, imagining seagull thoughts, wondering about stuff in general were a true holiday blessing.
Time’s precious, spent well with family but there’s also a little time each day – those moments watching from the window – for spending selfishly.
So I wrote this poem, one morning, watching the inevitable rain.
Hope you like it.
Rain blurs the horizon, murky opacity
shrouding distance imperceptible, lash talons
curtain-thrash the heather hill across the harbour.
Gulls hacker-love and swopper-kosh the cliff face lash,
dip-flung round the headland, clinging to land’s safety,
seeming wary of the mist-drifting, smash-pounding sea.
Tides dance white horses rockwards, crash-battering
geological brutality – lull-sucking,
repeating, unable to breach land’s bastion.
Ocean’s lust: to roll eternal miles, sine form
wave—swells flex-pumping, pitching at infinity –
coast free, shoreless: endless, unrestricted progress.
Our land is stubborn, though, resisting erosive,
persistent land-lash, ignorant of tide’s intent
to inundate our fertile floodplains, our valleys.
Steadfast bedrock, looming metres, hundreds, even
thousands – above the chasm drowned beneath ice-age
melt water, lying sopping and saturated:
Doggerland – holding evidence of what went once
before, why the legends, why the common stories,
a shared oral tradition, now lost memories.
We sit bounded by mist-blurred horizons, able
to perceive shapes loom-lurking, wondering what lies
beyond, unseen, hoving at perception’s soft edge.
Knowledge cannot osmose across such a membrane,
impenetrable to science, to history,
frustrating our want, conducive to fathoming.