Caspersen Beach with Cory


This lonesome beach, rocks of horseback brown; 

these rollrock waves lapping, slapping down--

primal sharks once roamed

and thrashed in foam.

Gulf waters, green, calmly still come home.


And could an artist stroll over dune-walks,

brush-in-hand, to tell us colour talks?


Yes! Windpuff spray of creamy froth

curdles history, withdraws to briny broth.


Caspersen knew this beach, once bereft

of artists capturing time in rocks now cleft.


Young painter, you are right! Wild and wet: 

long let waves weave in wilderness yet. 


Cory, I salute: En Plein Air seascape meets

verses praising...but  no Niagara greets!


Rather...praising deep dynamics of the sea

kissing rocks, sand, in mirrored destiny.


What charms waft their salt and airy scent?

Waters surging, ebbing, are wonders meant.


Yes, Cory, you've captured tidal run,

frozen it, hidden pull of Moon and Sun. 


This lonesome beach, with rocks old as time—

these rollrock waves their ocean brothers mime;

primal sharks have lost their teeth, unseen, but here; 

no longer extant, still shed memories of fear.

Cory, I salute. 

En Plein Air's Time's flute

playing a medley salty and astute. 

christmas in july

light was merely peeping

when I crept from our camp leaving

all others quietly sleeping – not a word 


the lapping of not distant tide had called

to paths I hoped would wind

to the solitude I wished to find

on the brink of an indian sea –

where imagery of exotic lands

markets, spice, and desert sand

and language I might never hear

could sing their songs to me 


but on that path of powder red

in silence, the unexpected stood

on watch for barefoot passing –  

aftermath of fire – 


black, skeletal, wattle scrub

grass blades burnt to ground

clean scent of ash and char


and yet,

the legacy of night and sea

shrouded every crow-black tree

in dimensions of translucency –

glistering salt in mist

and to every stick and crevassed root

to every blackened limb 

countless webs so fine were strung

spun with dew in rising sun 


and all of this a gift to me – 

white christmas by an indian sea


© Susie Faint

ANACHRONISM

Stranded between two worlds

Admiration, curiosity,

glimpses of wonders

barely credible.

I stand tentative

as in a dream

unable to go forward

            such frustration, anger,

a limited vision

assails my mind

            O to open up that vista

to clear and spreading

brave new world.


But I am older

than this present time,

an artefact laid down

in olden days,

antiquated and forbidden,

displaced, disqualified,

an anachronism.



Yet I have seen

creation come to pass

in fifty years

a whole new world begin.

Space is diminished,

speed has eaten time,

communication instant,

and all knowledge here

right at my fingertips.



But I prefer to

see you face to face;

pick up a book

enjoy the tale it tells;

relax between the truth

of sky and trees;

look up to feel the sun upon my face

not down upon a square of empty space.

©Deanne Lister

1st July 2014 

Mont St Quentin

By a half-ruined wall the soldiers huddle.

The artillery is quiet now—

In the eerie silence amid the rubble fragments,

stripped leaves and broken branches,

a pebble rattles beneath a boot.

Dust trickles, settles.

ode to uma

imagine lying in the sun each day
where lawn grows thick the insects play
as beetles fiddle to butterflies’ trysts
blue wasps hover where lawn grubs twist
and while ants scavenge for every crumb
all this happens while cicadas hum

imagine looking at bright clear skies
listening to birds whistle in trees till
a breeze steals the warmth from the day
and when the sun sinks at last for a rest
winter nights dazzle with stars
and not rain nor thunder nor clouds nor tides
can hide or banish the moon

when grass springs thick and cicadas hum
and the scar on the path isn’t there
imagine the plea in large brown eyes
a nose on the scent from the gate to the dunes
how the tip of a tail lit the way to the sand
and the wonderful  trails by the sea

Susie Faint      16/7/14

This is Gallipoli

A small white-pebbled beach
curving round a bay to distant headland
lost in haze.

Tiny waves lap the shore
slow, insistent, eternal.

Clear water,
blue to the horizon,
calm.

Small shrubby trees
gnarled with age and windblown.
Rosemary, grey-green.

Ravines rising to cliffs, red-brown,
rocky outcrops soaring.

A bright sky.
Light.

It could be anywhere
but it is not.

This is Gallipoli.



Now when waters lap a shore
I must return, for evermore.


Written at Anzac Cove, June 2014.

 

Lost


Everything about her lost
in this deep pool shadowed by cliffs
where the wind skims, rippling green.

Nothing above me now she is gone.
Grey clouds can’t touch her.

The water widens and the granite sings
to one small bird oblivious, dipping.



Lyn Browne, Dartmoor