FOGHORNS

1
At the water’s edge you always hear
the same near pressing elephant trumpeting
into the invisible air’s heart,
you imagine a gaze still amazed
despite the looming blindness
and, brushing your side, its tusks
on the verge of being uncovered
revealing crying rags of sunlight.


2
You love their insistence, bringing all the unseen near
on the bank of the canal along the sand-bar
facing cotton wool emptiness, the air
a marvelled pressure like fingers
carrying the silence of weightless pearls.
This rhythmic hum of sky is searching for your centre,
waiting to give mellowness to your heartbeat,
voicing your belief in the light and the present you relish
when you sense and touch the cells of the honeycomb,
the lungs and womb of your spreading shore.