WINTER AT ABERBACH
Keen frost has traced the pebbles on this beach,
tracked down salt seaweed, placed under arrest
bronzed bracken, dead as last year. No inquest
follows his noiseless handcuffs; he can reach
into the caves of darkness and impeach
rock strata, drips; he makes his own laws, tests
their iciness against the soft gull's breast.
They're hard and fast. I hear a feathered screech
and gather driftwood in my painful hands,
look back at muted colours, darkening cliffs.
I must go home at once: my watch is cold
with warnings that the white bird understands;
my arms are huddled wings, my fingers stiff
as talons in the joker's stranglehold.
To return to the Home Page click here
Keen frost has traced the pebbles on this beach,
tracked down salt seaweed, placed under arrest
bronzed bracken, dead as last year. No inquest
follows his noiseless handcuffs; he can reach
into the caves of darkness and impeach
rock strata, drips; he makes his own laws, tests
their iciness against the soft gull's breast.
They're hard and fast. I hear a feathered screech
and gather driftwood in my painful hands,
look back at muted colours, darkening cliffs.
I must go home at once: my watch is cold
with warnings that the white bird understands;
my arms are huddled wings, my fingers stiff
as talons in the joker's stranglehold.
To return to the Home Page click here
