Pods of little clouds
cruise close to blue herds
of the mainland hills
that frame the sapphire
bay's intensity;
the sky curves like a spinnaker;
the moon a sliver, nacreous,
half-visible through aqua waves,
is ghost-crab seeking camouflage.
Conspiracies of sky and sea
mesmerise the searching eye;
tides wait to erase our trace,
rearrange sand particles
and tamp them down
to smooth the grain -
watermark in stone to come -
leaving a signature
of bubbles, pebbles, coral,
pumice, bone; shells and shards,
as if to say: this is my place,
your prints trespass;
your presence
is as breath on glass;
your words
are as the wind through grass…
Traces
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105051000288
Свидетельство о публикации №105051000288
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