Used to knowing where the road ended,
Where it always had, the unfamiliar calls
Did not gather like warnings, but a signal
Opening out what sight might achieve.
The road sloped inevitably to the edge of land,
The view obscured by the heaped amusements
Of it’s busy pier, at first, then the corner turned-
The breakthrough of light like surfacing from water.
Equal with colleagues in a ring
I sit on each calm evening,
Enchanted as the flowers
The opening light draws out of hiding
From leaves with all its dove-like pleading
Its logic and its powers.
At intervals along the drained shore,
Settled to stasis between tidal shifts,
A vacated shell suggests a little
Of the life that gave it up,
Materials bartered for a slow flame
Exhale finally, having collected something of those
Centred around their debris and smoke,
Clinging to fibres, singling them out.
A switched perspective lowers the landmarks
To a framework, allowing us to isolate
The stretch of beach where our
Footprints shorten gradually,
Marking our transience
In a network of shingle and stone,
Where all points here;
To what we are, or might be.
Something rouses them
In a language no onlooker has brought
To fluency, all the same,
We watch as though their motives
Were our own, their tight factions
Splitting ground ward;
An order is given, a sudden closeness sets
A host of limbs into their strict arc,
Signalling an intent we have not guessed,
A multitude stretching themselves
Into flight; we follow them
As best we can,
Our heads trained upward,
Alert to each sharpened diagonal, our feet
Fixed knowingly to the ground.