Breaking on the stones

It is the night
before Easter,
the night
of the waiting day.

We are in the body
of the dark sky,
its breath
is cool on our skin.

We are walking
on the earth,
walking on the bones of it,
through the dark dunes,
through the quiet of them
towards the angry surf.

The sea is breaking on the stones,
breaking on the stones
over and over.

The roar of its fall
fills the shell of the sky,
fills the ear of our bodies.

We stand in its call
until we can hold
the force of it,
until it finds an echo
in our silence.

Highly strung

The wind is skeeting the tired tide,
the slow surface of low waves,
blowing it away from shore
in fast running sheets like hidden shoals
escaping the shallowing land.


I am not chained to shore
but floating free on your surface,
tethered by your tide,
the sun licking my face,
the salt buoying me up
with the swell of your laughter.


The sunlight falls,
flickers off leaves and fronds
of fern,
weaves patterns in the hedgerows
that guard the garden,
tumbles and teases the edges of shade,
the glade alight with it,
hugging the watching trees
that are icons,
the grass between a prayer mat.
I sit and soak in the sun


Lilac season
and spring unfurls
its green fist,
scatters daisies
in the empty grass.