There are things we never forget

For Paul Brookes’ challenge, 30DaysWild.

Painting by Mary Cassat

There are things we never forget

like skies, windy,
with the cutting edge of spring,
scudding clouds
and the song, drifting earthwards,
of the skylark,

still light, throbbing with heat
and only half-cool shade,
limp leaves,
sunlight sliding like melted butter,
butterflies and bee-buzz,
first blackberries,

and the heavy air, salt-sticky,
loud with gulls and the crash of the waves,
the running rippling of outgoing rills,
rolling grains of sifted sand
between bare toes.



Thoughts inspired by John Masefield.


I miss the sound of the sea

the smell of salt

the wash of waves on silver sand.


We were all water once

woven warp and weft from ocean whisper

and the deep dreams of whales.


I will go back at the end of the day

before the dying of the light

and linger in the salt blue sun.


Once when we were water

we knew what was true and what lie

why we must go down to the sea again.

Sea, turquoise and fuchsia




rolls on drunken waves

from sky to sky

and calls down boiling storm clouds

to drown my tears

in rivers of rain.


Voices in the fog,

ghosts of you and me.

I can almost remember

what we used to say,

but not how it felt.


It was the last time that we spoke,

and the words bounced back and forth

never taking hold.

I wish I could take those words

and twist them into the shape

of a bird or a rose

and give them to you again.


Take a song and sing it soft

to calm a stormy sea,

spread your crow black wings and let

the wind blow you safe back to me.


Beyond the humdrum

and the dismal damp

of November light,

sinking into obscurity,

the turquoise and fuchsia

and the flame red

of summer evenings

still sing to conjure up the moon,

and we will walk there

hand in hand beneath the stars.

Black pearls and moonlight

Twitter poems from yesterday’s prompts.


All tears are black

for sorrow is dark

and wells from the places

where no light falls.


Black pearls

are as rare as moonstones

and sundew

and starfish

that light the deeps of the ocean

with drops of pearl moonlight.


Gulls soar to the moon and back,

dusted with silver

and the grey of dead stars.

Their eyes full of worlds

we will never know,

their call, the voices of the dead.


Sun breaks on gleaming waters,



a hoard of light.

If my hands could hold it,

I would give it all to you.


At the epicentre of all worlds

is a heart that beats and throbs

in time to the wings of love,

the song of the turtle dove.

Tonight there are waves in the wind


Tonight there are waves in the wind,

An ocean of salt-feathered wings,

As graceful as fish, silver-finned.

Tonight there are waves in the wind,

Grey gulls to the wild clouds are pinned,

While the tide as it flows inland sings—

Tonight there are waves in the wind,

As graceful as fish, silver-finned.

At the ending of this day

Sangbad reminded me I hadn’t written a villanelle in a long time. Probably because they’re difficult. I’m chuffed no end to have actually written one, so here it is.


We wander at the ending of this day,

The stony path that overlooks the sea,

Where grey gulls dip and skim across the bay,


We stand so close, to watch the sunlight play.

Above the waves that beat against the scree,

We wander at the ending of this day.


When twilight drains all day’s bright hues away,

Tomorrows’ hopes fade, with the daylight flee,

Where grey gulls dip and skim across the bay.


We toss white pebbles as the pious pray,

You ask for signs, I send a final plea,

We wander at the ending of this day.


The pebbles sink; you say you cannot stay,

The far horizon calls you to be free,

Where grey gulls dip and skim across the bay.


Your fixed gaze says there is no other way,

Already you are gone, that I can see,

Sundered at the ending of this day,

Where grey gulls dip and skim across the bay.