Speak not.

Perhaps,
All those years ago,
A forbidden name
Was uttered
By the fisherman
Out at sea.

Perhaps,
All these years later,
We are
Reaping the
Blasted harvest.

(c) 2ndwitch, 11/05/17

Schist

The stones lie side by side on the
sea-washed beach, all colours and
no colours, they do not argue or
fight, but mingle into a rainbow -
hued whole, sand-bound existence.
Humans too stand side by side upon
this given earth, but have not yet
learned the simple lesson of the stones.

(c) 2ndwitch, 16/03/17

My thanks to Hugh MacDiarmid for his poem, and to Ragnhild Ljosland for her existence in juxtaposition, who jointly inspired this poem.

Through the looking glass.

The wooden boards that make the deck of the pier are old,
They are worn, and gnarled, and they are loose now,
They rattle and shake as we tread across them.
Through the gaps, and there are many gaps, we can see
Below, to the ever ebbing and flowing tide.
A knot has gone, left a hole, and there it is,
A chance to see the sea, to see it in a way that
It is not usually seen. That little bit of water
That swirls and eddies under the pier is usually
Hidden, out of sight, and seeing it now is like
Looking into another life, into someone's front
Room, when the curtains have been left open just enough.
Peeping though, we can glimpse where we might have been
If we had been able to get through the back of that wardrobe.
It does not matter that we can go back off the pier,
Down the steps and onto the beach, and that we can
Walk along and stand beneath the pier, and look up
And see the knot hole. For the land we walk to is not
The land that we can see when we look down.
They are two worlds. One is ours for the taking, and we live
In it and on it and through it; the other is the one that
Our imagination clothes in cloth of gold memory and
Dreams.

© 2ndwitch, 28/10/14

This poem
is for George and Alfred Bartlett, because I hope that they can see what I can see.

salt

a drumroll of raindrops beating to the tune of the wind;
the cries of the children left upon the shore;
the stars that gaze down with disinterest
on man, who stands upon the pier and watches;
the heather that bends, and bows beneath the
onslaught of the gale; the burn that bursts its banks;
the white-washed house that cowers, low,
before the storm, and bars its doors in defiance;
the boats that toss and swing, dancing to the
devil's tune; the harbour with waves washing over
the wall; the lone light that stands proud
and calls the passing hours to no-one there;
the tapping of the halyard that tugs on the
tattered flag; the creak of the swinging sign
on the fisherman's inn; the shower of stars
as the flare is fired and the silent death hymn
that mocks as the ocean is challenged by
those few brave souls.

© 2ndwitch, 22/10/14

(I cannot sensibly say what the inspiration for this poem is, there are many, many reasons for it being written - but it can be accompanied by a tune, the origins of which are so well explained in this video - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lltO52TBvSw; or you could try this song which is about the same subject - http://ivandrever.bandcamp.com/track/brave-souls)

A sonnet reflecting on loss and loneliness.

No soft brown eyes, nor blue, look long and see,
No gaze probes deep into my hidden soul,
No voice quietly whispers its soft words to me,
My tears no strong arms caress and enfold.
No breath my sleep measures through the long night,
No look, no exchange, no swift smiling glance,
No-one beside me, to help in my fight,
No hand to lead me in life's endless dance.

So think of me, lovers, think this of me
Each time you walk hand in hand down the lane,
That alone in my room each night I stay;
The waves on the shore, the fast-ebbing sea,
The trees in the woods, the grass on the plain,
All these are more free than I am today.

© 2ndwitch, 01/09/14