Sunday, July 17, 2011


After the swim you are faced
by the clouds in bloom,
a swelling of bright grey
and an arabesque of curls.
Rich –you hear yourself say.
Drying yourself you once more feel
the fulfilment of the sea-salt:
it rises and lashes about
with the wind and whips
the sharpened margins,
it teases you with the jostling
pointed wave crests
and binds you with darting
eel-like laces,
your skin delivered to the horizon
in unending flashes.

You’ll lie down in the sunlight,
in a stinging permanence,
by the waves
and their memories on the stones,
the glittering chinks
and the winding
white carved lines
you’ll finger with closing eyes,
the bright grit
that’s the first and last
layer of what you are
and the granite rocks
that will absorb your breath
when dozing off
you sail just a bit further on
in the heat.

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