One thread against another:

                                          intimate crossings

             Sainsbury-orange and silver birch

                                   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!')

                                                                                   upside down


                as moss: grease and powdered dark

                            fields in jars.

             iris, rose, herbs            fixture & loss

                                  water's hungers

                                                           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


   and birds-nests

                   railed off


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 always a vasty backdrop. The relief of seeing the horizon 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