1. Celia
The church bell’s tolling over the marshes
and over the frost on the flatlands low.
Philosopher cows are chewing the cud
and pondering down a reason of snow.
A peat fire burns in an old man’s hearth
but his heart is weathered as winter gorse.
Once he brought spikes of bright yellow flowers
down to the marshes from high on the moors.
Barley haired Celia walked with their baby
where the fishermen’s nets lay on the beach.
Mermaid’s purses and trinkets of seashells,
shingle-shone jewels washed up by rough seas.
Ah, how the dense clouds fold on the skyline,
ah, how the stone ocean hammers the shore
and sad how small words, spoken and twisted,
alter the drift of our boats evermore.
2. Celia Revisited
She walked the weed and twig strewn watermark
meandering in outsized clumpy boots,
her eyes cast down, as daylight slid to dark.
When the morning singing of a shorelark
echoed round the empty house of owl hoots,
along the weed and twig strewn watermark,
she was there – still scanning through sea-belt, bark
and flotsam: all the sea’s discarded fruits,
her eyes cast down as day emerged from dark.
One day I met her mother in the park
and asked about her daughter’s strange pursuit
along the weed and twig strewn watermark.
She sighed and offered only this remark:
“All of us seek – she takes a complex route…”
then looked downcast, as daylight slid to dark.
Now under a winter sky, iron and stark,
I sift through details that I can’t compute
along the weed and twig strewn watermark
my eyes cast down as grey days slide to dark.
