Q&A

Q&A

She clambers o’er weed slimy rocks, anguish
on her face, ocean crashing on the shore
where crested breakers race. A silhouette
she stands alone, hair tousled by the gale,
a lonely woman in the storm eyeing
death’s dark vale. “Why am I here? What is it
for?” the burden of her cry. “Nothing cost
and little lost if such as I should die.”

Far voices of the petrels wail in wind
and rain then echo round the bluff and cove
the lesson of their pain. “Heed the sea,” the
voices say, ”and wonder at its ways. It
sculpts the rocks and wears the cliffs while carving
out the bays. Fearsome when the west winds blow
we tremble at its roar. Yet children dance
the golden sand it scatters on the shore.

Now look upon its storm lashed face
where currents spring from tidal race
and billows form a random force
without beginning end or course.
No ripple knows what be its role
but minus one there is no whole.
All those mighty warrior waves
forever charging at the shore
are born of countless tidal slaves
that died an unmarked death before.

Like tiny servants of the sea,
not knowing what our fate may be
nor privy to the great discourse,
we must endure and run our course.

Tones of Time

Tones of Time

In a tavern by the harbour in a western port
a girl is pulling pints for the men who talk of sport.
Memories come flooding like the tidal ebb and flow
of the rolling ocean where the weathered sailors go.
And wistful time is passing.

Visions of a stranger still appearing in the door,
clearer than the river running gushing to the shore.
Tough, as rugged as a rock and yet so full of charm,
eyes brimful of mischief and tattoos upon his arm,
laughter fresh and bracing as the zephyrs of the sea,
a rover embodying the spirit of the free.
His song evokes a nightingale trilling from the nest,
sweet baritone with tremolo, hand upon his breast.
Then, when the tune is lilting, he leaps into the dance
quelling thug and bully with a challenge or a glance.
And happy time is passing.

On the misty mountain when lovers cling together,
breezes and promises are whispers in the heather.
And empty time is passing.

This is My Valley

This is my valley,
a warm western breeze,
a God-given jungle
of summer-green trees.
Steep hillsides with footways,
a carpet of flowers,
a thousand birds trilling
from canopy bowers.
Down rapid and rock
the river’s deep roar
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.

I once saw a girl
bedraggled and wet,
it wasn’t with rain
nor was it with sweat,
stood among trees like
a trick of the light
with shadows behind
as black as the night.
A feeling of awe
like never before
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.

She holds out a hand
as if to a friend,
but as I approach
black and white seem to
blend, till the girl who
is stood among daylight
and shade seems to melt
in the breeze and like
morning mist fade. The
one who I saw is
before me no more
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.

I stand for a while
wondering what I
have seen, a girl or
a nymph or maybe
a dream? Then being
a youth I go on
my way, determined
to make the most of
my day, now feeling
strange, a little unsure
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.

Lost in the muse and
the song of the sea
I wander the strand
feeling buoyant and
free. Then I see far
ahead, lying there
on the beach, being
lapped by the waves at
the tide’s highest reach –
an upturned canoe –
and here lies a shoe
beside a boat’s oar
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.

Beyond lies a girl,
bedraggled and wet,
it isn’t with rain
nor is it with sweat.
Too late to save and
no-one to cry she
lies on her back and
stares at the sky… I
watch from afar as
they take her away,
a callow young man
with nothing to say.
What can I do more
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore?

It’s many a day
I wander alone
by river and hill
over bracken and
stone then into the
wood where the spectre
once stood. There a voice
full of sorrow, a
voice full of scorn, sobs
“you left me to drown
on a soft summer
morn.” Next I find myself
here at the spot on
the beach where she floats
on the tide just out
of my reach. Now she
rises on high while
she beckons me fore
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.