Wind blasted sedges won’t lie down –
dried out reeds still have a trick or two.
Casuarinas in a thousand scaly fingered lines
voice the roaring all around.
Go past the trash blown to the bay (a bucket,
a toothbrush, a wheel turning in the weed)
onto the promenade full face to the gale – with
waves jacked up as far as eye can see.
Just me and the dog and the high hawk
working hard into the wind
to hold above some grey morsel sheltering
in the rolling grasses.
Waves splash onto the paving saying
water beats stone, air beats water, beats stone, dulls scissors, cuts paper.
(grab my hat) All this ostentatious energy
puts me in mind of eternity.
They say the migrating soul, at the very point
of squeezing in to its next, discards its past.
So the me-dog-hawk-morsel will be long gone
& recollections lost
but for breath-vapour-salt reclaimed
& windy-day waves saying:
water beats stone, air beats water, takes stone, takes scissors, takes paper
10 poems in 10 weeks – This is week 7.
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