The Moon on the Sea
The moon was high above the hills,
Its silvery light dimly cast pale
Fingers between the lines of trees
Pools murmur, shimmering tales
Of the dark beneath, cold life
Oily weeds, slimy; rich rocks
When the waters moving
To the song of the gale
The stones at the bottom knock
And grind, smaller, smoother.
A weed wears loose and floats
To the skin at the surface.

At the Jetty

Floating, staring at the sky, blue and cool.
A deep breath pulls my chest above the surface;
A ripple reaches up my cheek
And salt touches the corner of my eye.
Floating, hands patting the sea
Legs giving balancing kicks.
Granny calls, You'll catch your death,
Come in and have a cup of tea.
The dog is running down the quay.
She wants to play, but hates the water.
She wags her rear and smiles.
Sarah, come up out of the Water
You've been in there an awful while.
It's not that cold, shallow here by the boat
Dark in the shadow of the jetty.
Seaweed curls around my feet
But it holds no grip.
Sarah, come in and tell me your news
I haven't seen a soul all day.
I could lie here all day
Ears underwater, eyes in the sky
Floating with the jellyfish
But Granny won't give me peace.
Standing at the front door,
Clasping her hands tightly.

The Tide
Walking on a water sunset.
Seated on the dike by the carry.
It is getting dark and starry.
The light on the water pool blinks,
Lapping softly,
Back and fore.
Back and fore,
Gently rocking,
Back and fore.
Seaweed clings but has no grip
If allowed to pass.
Fear teaches us to struggle
We drag ourselves underwater.
Back and fore.
Gently rocking
Back and fore.
The water strokes the shore
Lapping softly,
Lapping softly,
The ache is a spring tide.

"Brochan, brochan, brochan"
Sings Granny at the cooker
Stirring the thick stuff briskly
And the thrush sings
at the garden window.
"Lochan, lochan, lochan."
That is where I'll be
The sun is out this morning, boys
And flat along the sea.
"Brochan, brochan, brochan.
Eat it while it's hot.
It's full of of my love for all of you
and it's sticking to the pot."
Ochan, ochan, ochan
It's dark and cold in here
There is not a soul at home tonight
To keep me company.

Two Old Watercolours

Two small watercolours from around 1998, these were copies, I don't know where the originals ended up. I think both were from around Rollin's Pass, Colorado.

View from a Studio