White Horses
Manes flying out, they charge the shore,
In curling ranks of flying spume,
Bringing in the ocean’s roar,
Along with that distinct perfume.
I feel as one with Nature’s force,
Battered by the wind-whipped sand,
I stand there counting every horse,
Not one of them at my command.
I watch their slender legs dispel,
In swathes of misty, salty foam,
Where do they go, when there’s no swell,
What magic place do they call home?
I paddle in, I can’t resist,
To feel their ghosts nip at my skin,
What utter bliss, to feel their kiss,
My spirit soars to join their kin.
Hunger
A bowl is just a naked hole that someone filled with water.
That fish in there seems very calm about impending slaughter.
‘He’s a pet, like you,’ they said, ‘he can’t defend himself.’
Frowning, they slid the fated bowl upon a higher shelf.
They told me lies, ’See! he’s so cute!’ I see how he defies.
He’s a doomed and ugly fruit, a scaly orange snack surprise.
Will his juice be tart and sweet, make up for what I lack?
For sure, once I’ve dealt with him, he’ll not be coming back.
Anticipating
The wind drops
Despite continents of cloud
A shaft of sun spotlights, vivid
A passing boat
Into dazzling silhouette
Striking
The sea’s pewter sheet
Tugs back, revealing dark streaks
Of a sandbank,
Gulls resting on its
Murmuring pleats
Waiting.
Almost stillness
Poised for the tide’s turn
Pools trickling
Seaweed crackling
Crabs creeping
Anticipating.
Winter
Frost fills my veins with Winter
Dry twigs rattling in the gale
Just want to sleep, curl hidden
Until the sky's no longer so pale.
I feel fragile as golden catkins
Buds curled tight upon the world
Hope lancing up through the soil
Spring’s promise poised to unfurl.