High Tide (Borth and Ynyslas)

28 06 2015


I want us to stand on any two of the tree stumps,
branch our arms and knot hands,
to find this kingdom lost in the endless sands
and be submerged in a forest of imagination.

I want to show you how like shipwrecks they are–
racked ribs picked bare, beach bound, barnackled.
Or that they’re like pipes periscoping out on the horizon,
waiting to be windmills – reduced to rusting trunks.

The car is blown beyond Borth’s half-painted homes,
and past caravans that have slipped their footings
until a smugglers’ path between disinterested pubs
winds us into the gusty sea. Waves cloud the treeline

and the village is stormed in the swell.  A man leans
against the squall, the broadsheet under his arm
like a mainsail.  A girl in red coat flares out beside him.
They listen for the sunken bells of a drowned myth

though there is no Cantre Gwaelod under this white tide.
There is no kittiwake, no razorbill, no seal, no dolphin,
no spider crab, no dog whelk, no lobster pot, no tree stump,
just sea, sea and the endless meeting of the sky.

In a beachside café, the windows groan and the cold laps
at the uneasy, circular tables.  Leftovers are layered
on piled plates like sedimentary rocks.  Cutlery chimes
and sunken faces whisper litanies to the sea.




2 responses

28 06 2015

Love the imagery in that second paragraph!

28 06 2015

Thank you, I thought the disappointment at the end of a long drive needed some consolation. In three hours you really buildup some anticipation!

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