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.
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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.
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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?
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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
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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.
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I feel fragile as golden catkins
Buds curled tight upon the world
Hope lancing up through the soil
Spring’s promise poised to unfurl.