This set is kind of watery, having connections to the sea and other aqueous bodies. The exceptions are 'park', 'bar' and 'shivering', but I guess that even trees need watering sometime, as do dry throats.
| jetty | ||
| lake | ||
| bar | ||
| tide | ||
| year | ||
| gulls | ||
| park | ||
| shivering |
the tide was high
and nearly kissing the top
of the lower level of the grey jetty
on which i sat, legs hanging over edge
into water which clasped my ankles
like wet socks.the jetty, stretching into the sea,
and into the night,
was lit by a string of lamps,
each with its own mothy nimbus.i raised myself on arms,
leant forward,
and slipped into the water
as softly as a seal,
the water cool as balsam
against the summer heat
little night wavelets
slopping round the piers
in gurgly mutters.i floated on my back
in this dark enbalming fluid
and looked at patterns in the sky,
cosmic fingerprints that stretched
across horizons
just like the fragiles threads
that span the continents.somewhere in alaska
the snow was now
white and cold
and windswept.
pale fingers of mist
sit at eye level
floating in and around
the network of branches
through whose interstices
the sun glares in autumnal lowness,
casting half in shadow,
half in the glow of hearthlight hues
whose warmth of shade
cannot dispel the hint of winter
hiding in this smokey stillness.through trees i walk,
one path marked upon the ground,
the other fingerposted by my thoughts
left and right at random,
for autumn is the time for reflection,
when lake waters sit unmoving
and show unrippled
their strange upside-down world.
squatting by the lake
i stare into this inverted facsimile
of our reality
and wonder if there is room in it for me.an errant thought slips onto me unbidden,
one that pictures you
coming from somewhere behind me
to stand behind me silently.maybe i would hear you, maybe not . . .
maybe the first i would see
would be your face appearing above mine
in this lake-side reflection,
maybe the first i would feel
would be your hand on my cheek."i'm cold," you might say.
"so am i," i would answer.
i would rise to my feet,
brushing down my knees
before looking at you,
before holding you
before shutting my eyes
in soft gratitude.
within a darkened bar of smokey mood
the chatter swirled in restless surging tide
around our booth, a port of burnished wood
in which i cupped my ear to hear your side
of life, the universe and everything,
the quirky episodes that shaped your eyes.
and though i could not really hear a thing
i nodded in agreement sage and wise.
my pleasure just in being there with you,
your invitation glowing still within,
your words in gentle cadence sneaking through
my guard, just like your touch upon my skin
that seemed a subtle hint of what might be,
an accidental touch placed knowingly.
black shiny rocks
glisten in shadowy moonlight
as the slow ebb waves
curl up and round
then back in soft gurgles,
dragging with them the lazy undulating seaweed
where jetty piles
march in rigid formation out of water,
onto shore.i stand upon the deck,
under the sole lamp,
hearing the chuckles and clucks
of the sleepy ocean
slopping around the musseled piles,
while somewhere in the shade of night
some gulls mewl their complaints.this jetty stands strong,
a bridge out to sea.
but tonight
no boats secure their rest,
and all along its length
the night waits expectant
as do i,
seaward eyes
searching the black horizon
where stars flicker
their unintelligible morse.i pull my coat closer round me,
in unconscious mimicry
of the coastal arms
reaching out on either side of bay
before turning back.tomorrow i will come down here again.
at beacon wharf
the fishing boats assemble
in their clinking jostle,
side by side they rest
upon the water dull and grey.the place i like to look
is down the darkish space
between the wharf and boat,
where briny diesel smells
are concentrated,
oily patterns twisting, turning
on the dark green waters
in that narrow gulf.it's where i used to watch
about a year ago,
a time when thoughts of mine
rocked restless, like those bumping boats.those thoughts: they drifted like odd paper scraps,
beyond my reach
and in the hands of feelings
pushing them around
just like the scatty wind
that spun and twisted them
in unpredictable and random ways.today the sea is still,
a gentle surge that rustles round the piers,
and not as fiercely turbulent,
the way it was a year ago.today the sea is still . . .
but just as deep.
well, if i were to find an old stone wall
in meadow on a hillside overlooking sea
i might be tempted to relax
and sit against this sunbaked crumbly warmth
with legs outstretched in front of me
on cool and tickly grass,
while diamonds splintering off the sunny sea
would make me close my eyes reflexively.and maybe you would sit reclined
inside my leg-spread vee,
your back snugged up against my chest
so that the fragrance of your hair was at my nose,
our cheeks so very close
as you leaned back and into me.and then my arms would circle you
in lap-sash harness to my heart,
and like the random spirals of the wind-borne gulls
my fingers, they would drift and eddy on your skin . . .despite the warmth
they might define an upturned nipple
underneath your shirt;
despite the pleasure of the sun
they might slip deep into the dark
'twixt jeans and skin
to find the humid place within.and with my back against the wall
i'd hear your breathing changing
as these movements soft and small
continued on so patiently, relentlessly
until i felt you gasp and move with me
until i felt you twist within my grip,
my lips with yours you turn to seek.and when you cry aloud your thrill
some people down below
might look towards the hill
to see just soaring, wheeling gulls
and wonder at their odd
and strangely human cries.
odd sentinels of blue gum, redwood, spruce and chestnut
stand indifferently above bright coloured clusters,
islands made of people, sprawled in ones and twos,
upon an undulating ocean,
parkland lawn awash with dazzle of the sun.
the air is hot
and heavy with the pungency of summer bloom,
and busy with its clicks and buzzes,
and the seashell roar of traffic some way distant.
limbs stretch out upon the grass
from under hems raised high
to catch the sun.
my eyes drift shut,
unbidden closure with the pressure of this aromatic warmth,
my vision blurring and reducing detail
to a bold impressionist's montage
of brushstrokes free and unrestrained.
and in this fuzzy soft cocoon
i slip into some other realm,
the abstract visions
coalescing into scenes
in which you feature as the star attraction
while i'm not too bad in a supporting role.and here we play our way
through sequences of carnal exploration
seeking some obscure connection,
some key element delivered
by the heady mingling of our sexualities,
the rampant fever driven by our fierce abandonment,
our leg-spread trust in this surrender,
turning, tumbling, tangled in a moaning,
sweaty clasp of limb and hair and breast
and skin on skin in pink and liquid penetration
breathing hard and groaning garbled words
of voiceless declaration,
statements bound in kisses many, kisses deep.a shadow crossed my eyes
and sought to wake me from these thoughts
and from my infra-red embalming dream
reluctantly i stumbled back into reality,
the bright world yet unfocussed, still unclear
i blinked and held hand to my eyes,
and as my sight returned
i saw you stand in shadow
looming tall above where i reclined
and from this ground perspective
i could see the hem of skirt above your knee
the swell of thigh,
the undercurve of breasts in blouse,
and curious smile upon your face."whatever were you dreaming of?" you ask,
"i see your gun is primed and ready to discharge."
you nudge that part of me with shoe."i guess i was away, " i said,
"but i am back and pleased to see you.""oh, but i can see that all too well," you say,
"now would you like some shade for that?"
whose name is it
upon your lips
when behind you,
the door you close
to lean against it,
having entered the cold shell
of where you live?whose name is it
that in whispered desperation
scrambles out across your arid tongue
as you stumble to the sink
to glass yourself some water cool
to slake the dryness of your mouth?whose face is it
that occupies your mind
as you struggle out of clothes
and clad in t-shirt only
clamber in the white space
cold between the sheets?and as you draw your knees
up to your chest in shiver,
whose hand is it you wish
could smooth the goosebumps from your arms,
and draw the heat
into the curve of your back?and as you flick the light away,
and see the constellations spin
behind your eyelids
in the queasy, lonely darkness,
whose warming breath
you wish could waft in comfort on your neck?and as the welcome void of sleep
crawls through your body,
whose chest do you wish
you could breathe in slumber into?whose arms do you wish
could cradle you till tomorrow?my vanity says me.
my fear prevents me finding out.
last updated by mikko; 16 May, 2002
last updated by mikko; 16 May, 2002