Friday, 4 October 2013

Falmouth



Last week I came back, 
to the platform by the sea,
to salt bitten air and familiar paths.
Fog lay settled in pockets,
held by the crevices of hills.
The sea waited, flat, grey, level,
bordered by its own small ghosts,
that stirred quietly about us.

We used to swim off the rocks here, 
in a deep inlet past the headland.
I remember the first rush of icy water over the hollow of my back,
transformed, our human shape discarded on the sand,
we were small silvered fish,
snatching at sunlight that broke
and sparkled over the surface above,
splintering to nothing between fingertips.

I would like to gather Cornish light,
heap it up in buckets, swilling, overflowing,
stagger home under the weight of it,
spill it through rivers and into the Thames,
illuminating a floor of multicoloured pebbles, 
the bed of the Helford.
I'd bathe in it, soak it in so that it ran gold
through my veins and there I could carry it with me forever.


No comments:

Post a Comment