VI

Several hours to the nearest coast
away for a night and day is all
our landlocked lives would allow.

That first time we arrived at night,
down the steepest hill to the road’s end,
to wind and rain, and a hardly visible sea.

Then up three steep stairs we climbed,
to that attic room where opening
its window on a November night

we sat in its deep-silled space
to see the waves seething below us,
waves vying for room in a bay

crowded with rolling forms
of water eager to break and fling out
foam and ****, spray and stone.

Later and despite the rain
we walked the length of a beach so dark
our shoes could hardly guide us home.

Always the incessant sounding sea.
High above a drama of moon and clouds
throwing jagged shadows on the wet sand.

Caught in this play of natural things
how could we not hold these images
ever closer to the imagination’s heart?

VII

I’ve come again
to my favourite place:
below the coarse grass landward,
above the wet sand seaward.

This zone of discovery,
my well-found land of treasure,
rich in bewildering textures.
Some of it I could do without,
but even the plastic is
beguilingly ornamental.

I carry with this bag of mine my third eye.
I will collect and even curate (in the field)
ephemeral exhibitions on suitable surfaces.
Never camera-shy these found objects.

Later, they may appear
on my studio table, or pinned
against the wall, then primed
with carborundum on
a collographic plate, stilled
into life for the purposes of art.

Whatever the object may be,
it carries my tide-mark,
a quality sign endorsing a choice
made on a deserted beach,
and proved to be right
when placed in my hand.
It registers rightful ownership.
Who knows, one day
it might embody something
more than an image of itself.