Still
Temple of white noise, a disturbance of gravel,
a sea-front at midnight scratching its back,
as on a nearby beach the in-between channel
is dragged out to the surf, and in its lack
leaves a quarry of fossils and seaweed--
it carves out hollows, holy sites and caves,
tugs the bay-water quietly along on a lead
solving the land with endless shapes of waves.
It’s in the detail, the rustle of black and white
spilling from the broken TV in chunks and patterns
mixing into the moon’s unravelled lamplight
on the rustling sand which the new rain flattens,
the rain that never stops, hammering in cold strands,
on my face, and in my cupped hands.
Temple of white noise, a disturbance of gravel,
a sea-front at midnight scratching its back,
as on a nearby beach the in-between channel
is dragged out to the surf, and in its lack
leaves a quarry of fossils and seaweed--
it carves out hollows, holy sites and caves,
tugs the bay-water quietly along on a lead
solving the land with endless shapes of waves.
It’s in the detail, the rustle of black and white
spilling from the broken TV in chunks and patterns
mixing into the moon’s unravelled lamplight
on the rustling sand which the new rain flattens,
the rain that never stops, hammering in cold strands,
on my face, and in my cupped hands.
