Only the Ghosts Can Tell

 

I sit on the banks of the estuary

and listen to geese in their chatter

as they plan to leave, steal a glance

at the swans as they lift their necks,

at the oystercatcher as his long legs

carry him further from me, away

in his world of digging and dipping

for a sea breakfast of morsels.

 

The sky lifts its morning curtain

as the last of the moon departs

and a red morning glows over the hills

behind me, and I think of the shoe,

the one I found buried in the mud,

the one still laced from centuries ago.

 

Maybe the ghosts of Dartmoor have a theory

but for the birds, for the tide, for me, it is too early.

 

 

 

Fire and Water

 

You need to wait for the tide to go out,

enjoy the rocky leavings of the swirl and swim,

abandon your socks and shoes

on the sandy shore and take a chance

on the riverbed.

 

You could find an oyster shell, find

a pearl, or if not, a starter for dinner;

maybe there would be a smooth

pebble you can finger and wish

on moon’s lucky light.

 

And when you are out there in the middle

of it all and the squelch is glutinous in your

toes, you may hear a cry from the past, see

a gleam of fire in the setting sun.

 

 

 

Renewal

 

Our regiment of houses, our fiery

shields in cloud crackled skies,

our homes flaring hoists of sail

flapping saddened in the wind,

 

their thatch bonnets lifted, wailing,

roaring smoke trails of goodbye,

until the last was gone, in a dying

snap and pop of burning wood;

 

then a spring rain pattered down

the empty lanes – once houses stood –

washing clean the hollow alleys

where new footprints marked us out.

 

From a crevice, rambling wild,

forget-me-nots winked, beguiled.

 

 

 

*

*

Epilogue

*

*

*

*

and I wondered at my ancestors ... at what happened

what they did … what they’d say to me today.

If I listened very carefully

would I hear the

paper boats

talking

to me

…