One thread against another:
Sainsbury-orange and silver birch
Ð the white bags tugging at my finger-joints
third week of March, and we've sprung forward
someone's turned the green man ('Walk now!')
as moss: grease and powdered dark
fields in jars.
iris, rose, herbs
fixture & loss
fleet as grass
The way the walls fell straight down,
sheer with the cliff
in the field below, the tractor's
tiny noise, square-ticking
half a floor
and nothing round it
fire imagines next to air,
the logic of flues
turfed and flinty
keeps breaking through
Be wary of the grace of aftermath. The gleam on fresh-scoured sands. Sprawled
along the tideline, glyphs of wrack and mermaid's purse, starfish, embedded
shells. Edge of wave as fringed lace shawl, feinting at the shore. Ladies'
fingers. How discrete and pure the seagulls' cries, how high, how they make a
distance. Luxe, calme, and hopefulness. But it's that
balm I want to warn against, a daylight moon frail as the skin of milk.
Minimalism's sublime Ð always a vasty backdrop. The relief of seeing the
horizon Ð as if it hadn't been there all the time.
Rushes back, like the tide. What's beached here: the strong ribbed whelks
with holes in their sides, or mashed till nothing's left but inmost spirals;
broken glass made blunt, opaque. The opulence of salt-fed rust. Spread on a
plate, the sweet scum from the top of the preserving-pan that hides the
seethe below. Mistaking results for ends.
© Anna Reckin 2008