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Once, we lay still together half sleeping
you waiting with me waiting for me to wake
That you should wait in watchful warmth
would wait, telling me afterwards
you’d waited though it was late, the night
overlapped by the morning light welling
upwards you awake and waiting
Me waited for
Nothing’s high here the undulations of land inward introspective
as though sunk back on themselves.
Unexpectedly, a tree - huge spreading black leaves a complex foreign torso
an aberrant palm late roses flagrantly petalled
the aspect of water sudden, present - a liquid levelling green.
The long roads run muddy and blind narrow etchings
their secret apprehension salt, tall ships.
As if the sea’s breath had actualised in salt
vapour deposits of tar
The sun’s blotted out - a huge smoky sea
discharging clotted lengths of foam
The fire on the beach burns red
thick white air fire against water
All day I’ve been locked in my own head
now I’m thrilled by the chalky coolness
taste salt - hear the sea’s surge and suck
the complex rattle of stone
(Red logs burn on the water’s edge)
Clear of the mist the green lights of service tills
She has released from that still place in herself a singing colour
and it is blue over and over again it is blue.
Now there are shapes the thinnest most see-through of shapes
dropped on the paper in slivers, sickles an intricacy of scales.
Sometimes there is a brown so tender it’s like the head
of an otter cupped under your hand. Then a nick
of crimson, a curl of creamy vanilla - or an extraordinary
chattering of lime green surfacing everywhere in little snatches.
The blue world has its own meanings deep and far as a circle.
The blue world sings making its one sound.
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