Thursday, 31 October 2013

MAWGAN PORTH: SURFING, OCTOBER 2013...

 
Oystercatcher Skimmed, I Surfed.

The morning sun

Offered no warmth-
Merely gleam,
As tousled, wild sea, still in the throes of a spent storm,
Built layers at low tide:
Enticing, invigorating.
 
The swirling shallows
Extended no welcome-
Just coldness,
Upon vulnerable feet, still warm from a stern march:
Spoilt shivers of previous tides
Embracing, ingratiating.
 
The hurling surf
Spared no mercy,
Simply thrust
And flung my board, still in the grip of tense hands;
Whipped down onto dying tide:
Racing, elating…
 
The oystercatcher flew east,
Mad breakers crested;
Just flashes of white and black:
Slim, red bill keen:
For my cold eyes, a feast,
My attention arrested,
Just streaks on rip’s attack-
Solely by me seen…
 
 
 
 
 
This oystercatcher flew west, 24 hours later.
It was meant to be...


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