Romney There are still places enough to contain all this Enough to start from dreams on a winter’s afternoon As melted quicksilver slides blue-grey glistening shingle and breaker glutinous agar, fish smells and burst purselain, mermaids ear, lobster tails and claws foetor from lobster pots. I am in my boat or greystone ragstone tower looking at Dungenness from New Romney, across the marshes, scrawled with smoke like charcoal where buried organic waste seethes a monument of impossibility And cries offshore fade into rising haar fill with quickening roar of orchestras we did not commission. We spend more notes but have less time than oceans, signifiers of mineral lashed breakwater or receding beach and a fisherman’s hut framed in light as wash declines with its torn paper sucking, a door swings open on blown festering cod, stacked into coiled wrack and pursel of eyes and tails to feed cattle. My fingers split right through and leave a foul blackened chaff of scales and powder they dump to rot in salt scour and salt creeks where the cars still park at dusk with lights dipped as the North Foreland’s in its perihelion mockery of the cosmos, glours from blue-black traverses and bisects the darkened shore- Lapping blades, lights bottle-lens dredger horns mourning all this drags And catches those million dead eyes that belonged to brine. And hair stands on your nape as the barrage Gale lifts over Dungenness, twin pillboxes Fragile sleeping giants, places contained In their stillness, that are always moving as the sky does, infers that God is dead and replaced with infinite worlds, multiple universes, faith a bolus for credulity, as rocks pile these instressed places constantly made and remade grey by their anonymous esurient tides. By Colin Honnor
Posted on: Sat, 24 Aug 2013 09:19:11 +0000
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