Fleet ‘The path was small…’

For if

there is,

truly,

a Spring 

in winter 

let me drink 

then,

deeply of your 

beautiful eyes 

to see the dawn 

of morning blue,

for laughter 

is the sunlight

of March

that rises,

beautifully 

in the blossom

of life

that is

simply being

and walking,

the path

with you.

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They

He pulled. Felt her hand in his. Remembering her taste. Her smell. The way her body cleaved into his. His into hers.

Mustiness. 
Earth. 
Wonder. 
Urgency.

The earth crumbled around him. It matted his arms, legs and lower back. 

His hair. 
His beard. 

He sat up. Felt the dull ache, the throb of life to be given fill his awakening being with her. 

To her.

She could see him now. Lifting himself out of sleep. His own dream wrapped around him. She released his hand, reached over and kneeled beside him. She cleared the soil, earth, pebbles and stones from his  feet, his legs. Saw his rising. Spread her warming hands and cleared away the earth and winter from his torso, his arms. 

His eyes were still closed. She caressed his face. His beard. And combed his hair with her fingertips. His breathing, before, once shallow in intervals of time, slow and season, deepened as he trembled with the beginnings of power that infused him.

His eyes filled her soul with his form. Half known. Half remembered. A sense of knowing and possession filled her heart and senses.

They joined as the sky lifted.He the earth. She its Spring.They pushed and pulled and bound and knotted the spaces born in life and time between them. 

A circle of birds arose. 

Like leaves re born from yesteryear. They too combined in runes and patterns remembered long and hard, instinctively opening, outside, inside, and up and to the light above them.

And in memories, coupling and murmurations, she and he, the two,  entwined again and again, the great pulse of life, 

Again and again, they lifted seas and sons; the cycles born of time and place between them.

It began to rain.

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February Afternoon

The sun sets

long shadows,

cast the distance 

upon the broken 

garden wall

But amongst 

the cracks,

the silence,

beneath 

the settling

dusk 

of late afternoon 

A blackbird

sings, his voice

catching 

my tears 

one by one

as softly, 

gently 

the rain begins

to fall.

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S(he)

He was awakening. The stiffness of sleep held him tight within its arms. The winter stars were wrapped in sheathes of time about his legs and lower body. From somewhere outside of himself he could feel a growing sense of urgency. A warmth. A remembering. He needed to remember. Wanted to remember. But a great fog of darkness still held him. Whispered to him. Wanted him to remain within it.

Somewhere. Somewhere.

‘Here.Here.’ He could sense his own voice outside of himself. A movement beyond his own vision. A feeling. No more. 

Shapes formed around him. He felt a tightening within him. A gnarled, knotted network of strength that rooted him down began to pull up from deep beneath him. Answering a deeper call from the pressing darkness around him.

There it was again. And again. A pulse. A throb. A release of heat into what he could feel awakening above him.

‘I must move,’ the thought, if that was what it was, an impulse, a command, came into his consciousness. He felt the pull upwards. Strong. Ancient. Remembering. 

He knew he lay between roots, trunk, branch, leaves to be and the great emptiness of sky.

Something was tracing upon his still bound hands. Patterns. Repeated. And again.

‘Runes,’ the shapes, became sounds. The sounds, familiar, became repeated, and grew into words. The darkness around him began to thin. Began to dissipate. Light, for that was what he remembered, slipped between the stars and spread in warmth around him.

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She (1)

She was not sure when it started. A cold day perhaps. Long shadows. Early evening. She could feel in her memories the wind blow cool from the mountains around the valley. A shiver of possibilities across the lengthening dusk.

Maybe it was then. When the first stars blinked across the skies, the first street lights flickered and then failed.

‘Yes. Perhaps it was then,’ she thought to herself.

She closed her eyes. Lay still and quiet. Felt once again, the first time it touched her.

Fingertips across her face. A breath through her untangled, uncombed hair. Two hands like ripples along each side of her spine.

She felt naked. Known. Not wanted. 

Needed. 

Essential to something outside of herself. It was not a violation. More a justification of her being there at that moment and now.

A now that seemed to stretch from then until the now. The here where she lay under the freshly mown grass,the open blue sky and the rim of trees that nodded and whispered in the late spring breeze.

‘Yes,’ she admitted quietly to herself once again, ‘this, what is now was born from then.’

She reached out with her hand and blindly sought his own. She felt through each new blade of grass, felt the soil crumble, warm and fecund through her fingers, smelled him close to her, his breathing, his mustiness and then found his. She caressed the palm of his hand. Followed the lines and marks, the calloused knots and branches of experiences that were written in his outstretched fingers.

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A Sleepy Summer Afternoon

It’s a lazy, 

sleepy afternoon, 

the villages 

are empty, 

flowers,

in colours 

of summer, 

curtsy and nod 

in the baking sunlight, radiating off walls 

and shimmering rooftops, and, as if uplifted, 

a single buzzard flies 

and swoops overhead. 

It’s so warm, 

the distance 

is translated, 

from far and away, 

to the here 

and now: 

a band of 

light above 

the winding road, 

the asphalt, soft, 

under the lens 

of light, 

a magnifying glass 

to places and oases 

beyond the peel 

of church bells, 

that mark, 

in a sudden silence, 

the slipping 

of hours. 

And it is here 

that I stop, 

and step off the path, 

lean over the fence, 

across the summer gardens, 

the flowerbeds, 

the well kept lawns, 

abandoned lawnmowers, 

the hiss 

of water sprinklers, 

the hurried slam 

of descending sun blinds, 

and here it is 

that I stop, 

and look at the world 

from the side.

And beyond 

the crumbling brick wall, 

the crooked apple tree, 

bending like time, 

over the broken gap, 

the open doorway, 

where butterflies 

dance and tarry, 

I see further than myself, 

the slow patterns 

of the wind 

and seasons, 

the trembling shadow hands 

of leaves, 

and deeper, 

further into the folds 

and valleys 

of the distances 

that await me.

But of course,

I am blind. 

I can see 

no further 

than the fingers 

of my left hand, 

the hand that feels 

the breeze 

flow thorough 

and across it. 

The memories 

and whispers 

of former times 

gather and press 

around me, 

shaping, waiting, 

listening 

to my breathing, 

hearing the dance 

of my heart 

as I slowly feel myself slipping, 

stretching 

and falling 

through.

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She could see their forms shiver and shimmy. She stepped closer. Her self belief was not unsurprised by what she was seeing: two people bound together by time, place-and not a little love.

The wind whispered again, hushing her doubts aside  as she stepped closer towards them. She could see through their opaqueness: the edge of the lagoon, and the grey-blue waters still and quiet under a fresh western sky. Beyond, and stretching behind them, was the beach itself, like a great arm separating sky and sea, past and present, now and then.

They turned as if they could see her, he beckoned her towards them both. His eyes full with belonging, his hand waving, almost urgently.

She walked again, closer, and yet closer, leaving Cassie whimpering further and further behind.

She walked past them, they flickered and faded as she went by, and as she looked at the gravestone, standing and yet tilted, deep in long grass and covered with tears of moss, lichen and split into a mosaic of cracks and fissures. She reached out and touched the cold, wet, damp stone and rubbed the green fur of centuries, away from the inscriptions and read:

‘Mohune, Emily, b. 1746 d. 1796. Mohune, John, b. Unknown,d.1796.’

She read further, and in doing so, dared not to look at the two figures standing behind her, but feeling them step closer, she read on:

‘Life giveth and taketh, returning all who live to the beckoning sea, waste not your days, and heed the wind, for your chime of hours, is what is left to be.’

She felt a mere whisper, a breath of wind behind her back. She turned slowly fearing what she might not be able to see.

John and Emily stepped back from the gravestone. They had walked from the wreck, left the wounded and broken, the bloated dead that lay strewn across the beach, their bones shattered, their organs pummelled, their bodies abandoned beneath the unforgiving skies, across the  breached and storm -battered berm.

It was too much, knowing they had each other, but others had lost their own  lives, slipping through the storm that had separated what was alive to that which never would be. One to the past, the other to a future neither would remember.

They walked up the beach, to the edge of the marram grass, across their spiky crests, to the dunes that rippled and fell until they came into the lee of the wind, and the pathway that led them through the silver birches and bristles of Scot’s pine, through sheltered oases of silence  towards the nestling church.

‘I’d not remembered this,’ she said,’Our names must be here, unless this is finally the now where we both belong.’

He held her tightly, he couldn’t let her go again. He pointed at the figure still peering at the gravestone. Fading now, she was a mere grey smudge upon the stone, a shadow or pall that seemed to collapse into the gathering darkness.

‘She might,’ he nodded as if only talking to himself, ‘I mean she might remember us before she too turns upon this way again.’

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She turned and walked back from the beach. Everyone had long since gone. The storm had passed, the skies were  clear once again, and the wind had settled into restful sighs across the silver birches. The trees were still and yet crooked, bent and twisted with their boughs and branches in repose after surviving another bout with the seasonal storms that raced up this battered coast.

The path was small, she had not taken the tourist one, the direct route, instead  she followed the sunken one, the one that meandered through the wheat fields, along the high hedges that edged the rippling folds and furrows of fields, copse and sky.

Cassie ran ahead, turning, pausing, sniffing, following an invisible pattern of smells and traces that bound her instincts to territories of the hidden world around her.

She could just see the church, the original one, the one that had been flooded, wrecked and mauled by the storm of 1776. Only the nave remained, now a chapel surrounded by tilted and ancient gravestones that stood like sentinels against all that time could offer. Belief in life beyond the tide.

She followed the sandy path, the rabbit clipped grass either side, the droppings marking the places where they danced in the late evening sun. She passed the silver birches, their leaves shimmering in myriads of silver shadows upon the old red bricked wall. It leaned to one side, roots and subsidence having dislodged bricks that had galled into the sandy loam.

The gate to the back of the churchyard was ajar. Broken and battered, it swung lightly upon ancient hinges, with soft sigh and whispers of the empty wind.

They were standing together over the double grave stone. He was leaning his head on her shoulder, she had her arm around his waist. He was  bent and traced his hands over the letters hidden behind centuries of weathering, moss and incalculable seasons of cycles of summer and winter.

Cassie whimpered and lay down not wanting to go closer.

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He paused, scratched his head with his pen, as if to recall something he had forgotten 

‘…and,’ he stuttered,‘something has turned up at the church, over the last few months, we’ve had reports of moving lights at night. Youths probably, come down from the caravan park, drinking, playing ghosts, larking around.’

She turned fully and looked him directly in the face. 

‘He is young, almost too young to keep the law, never mind enforce it,’ she thought to herself

‘Is there a connection? Between that and…,’ 

She paused, hesitated, sighing at the release of the stress over the past hours- not least from the interviews and cameras that had poked her privacy, as well as asking her the same questions about what she had discovered until there were no more answers any different than the one she repeatedly gave.

‘You know the smuggling history along this coastline, the shipwrecks, the beach and the flooded church…’

Her voice trailed off. The mystery of it all sounded too real, too familiar somehow, almost like a predictable television after nine show.

‘ I don’t know. But we do have a missing person, an abandoned car, and a wreck of bones dragged from who knows where,’ he paused himself, then added,‘and when.’

Behind them, the waves had lessened in their intensity, the roar and rage of the shingle had shifted to a hiss and rattle. The crowd of people had thinned. The tideline was mostly of broken wood, seaweed and fragments of casings, caskets and long thin bends of binding metal.Twisted and rusted they pointed, wildly, madly, at shattered bottles, brown glass and thin arms of a myriad of twigs and branches that had piled in heaps from the retreating tide.

‘How do you trace a missing person who you know has abandoned his life, his time, and probably drowned in the sea?’ He asked.

‘Time will tell,’ she mumbled almost to herself.

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Kent

The cherry blossom 

fell, along 

the garden paths, 

and  upon others, 

that lay, 

still, quiet 

and hidden, 

among the thickening shadows, 

beneath 

the stretching hands 

of trees. 

For he walked, 

slowly now, 

remembering footsteps 

of those 

who walked 

with him, 

upon evenings,

like this one, 

warmth in the heart 

of sunlight, 

his treasure 

of life 

this time,

and memories

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