MusselsPosted: June 6, 2013
Two mussel shells lie symetrically
no longer purposeful, nor poised
but still eye catching
We went rock pooling with George and Anna,
fishnets, buckets, a camera that could fall underwater
breathless but unabashed.
A host of crabs- deceased.
splendid in this first flush of summer.
June, bursting out all over,
(a tune to annoy my mother).
The rockpools, hissing and popping,
sea fronds lapping,
sea weed slurping the soupy dents
of time blackened rock.
scallywags and dogs above.
And a pirate cave beyond
towards Morfa Head,
the sea soporific in milky stillness
and a thrifted cove yawning in unison.
So it begins
the fresh blessing of sun filled mornings,
hedgerows fat with bluebells, wild garlic, buttercups
and the night’s drift into dappled shadows.
The blue purple flash of swallows,
the busyness of the wren,
a fat bullfinch, and later,
a slender green one.
The chestnut glow of horses coats,
the steady rhythm of kayak paddle,
of boat engine,
of farm machinery,
wafting across the bay,
coasting to Carningli,
disturbing crow, jackdaw, red kite and buzzard alike.
I walk past your house,
winter frozen and
ghosted after your death, some five years since,
and I imagine I glimpse you at your kitchen window,
ordering fish or a newspaper,
shooing out adders,
tending your garden.
But it’s too late now to break the season’s mood;
the light has stolen in,
and mussels lie on Newport beach
as perfect as an Old Master,
framed in sand and shell.
And all is well.
Yes, all is well.