There we were at the beginning of the world
A forest
redwood
bay laurel
A watercourse chiseled
into the limestone of that ridge
opening outward
to the west and setting sun

We were almost under water
through miles, through layers of green

We sat together
listening
as the alto recorder in my hand
played on its own!

A tune that called
a mahogany-voiced bird
to harmonize
A tune
that gentled the sun into the sea.
A tune
that wove together
every instant
of the days we had yet to live

Attuned.

Those whose thoughts have not sprung
from the cadence of waves
will never know songs that were ancient
when all the now agéd were young.

Those whose respect the vast ocean
accepts speak its tongue, sense
vagaries known only to weathered
faces turned to catch tidal motion.

Those whose minds are ocean-attuned,
gather storm-ebb's precocious
mood as ****'s mineral wealth floats
in with extras like fresh crab food.

Those whose living has grown safer
with knowing sea-swell pictures
wave behaviour hear vague whispers
of sound-change in rising breakers.

Those who receive news of bad gales
before skies turn black have read
wisdom's past signs and hear sea-bed
rhythms not heard by strangers.

Simplicity
Is the
Act of giving shape
To chaos -
An affair of alchemy,
Like turning sweat
Into drops of
Silver.

(c) LazharBouazzi

On Sunday’s Canvas
our footprints sketch a path
across the sand.
Out of focus, others dot the beach.
Hands drawn tightly together,
our talk ebbs and flows.

This is Sunday’s Cove,
the rim where rivers end and tell their stories.
Afternoon sea and sky run together until
we are surrounded by what we feel.
Sand shines in a festive way.

Here at the edge of the world,
night is celebrated with wine in a water glass.
Beyond the surf, we do not hear the silence.
We wake every morning to brush new paths.

1764

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
  The maddest noise that grows,—
The birds, they make it in the spring,
  At night’s delicious close.

Between the March and April line—
  That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
  Almost too heavenly near.

It makes us think of all the dead
  That sauntered with us here,
By separation’s sorcery
  Made cruelly more dear.

It makes us think of what we had,
  And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
  Would go and sing no more.

An ear can break a human heart
  As quickly as a spear,
We wish the ear had not a heart
  So dangerously near.