THE RISING
TIDE
Tides rise
to greet the oak moon,
Weighted ‘gainst the acclivous breach,
Hark! Silence, all is dead and still,
Then rumbles from distant tropics
Paragons
form in stormy froth,
Above peaks and swirling eddies
Crests mount to gallop like horses,
Rushing and crashing up slips
A lonely figure stands and peers,
Across dull grey waters, through mist,
Blued, he fights the arresting cold,
His breath steams, like a coughing boiler
A bearded fisherman limps north,
Trawling cod before the seas freeze,
His bloodied knife fillets the chum,
As the oaken hull heaves and rocks
Folk venture out in strawy coats,
They slip, fall and skate on iced roads,
Jolly in their bright scarves and gloves,
Their eyes shoaled and glowing brightly
Lonely figures hike the chalk coast,
When day draws in they make to rest,
Sitting before burned coals in damp,
Their socks toasted off itchy feet
Out in the enveloping dark,
Bright children laugh and scream ‘til blue,
Cold mitts mould abominables,
Stern mothers fuss and call them in
Soon the ice and snow thaws to green,
A bright winter sun burns above,
Mornings wake in hopeful Primrose,
And daffodils stalk from dark soils
The gannet banks against the sun,
From a bright empyrean dint,
Eyes a fish and darts like lightning,
Its claws brush the reddened water
Looms its grey wings out stretched and turns,
To fly south, the first sign of new,
As talk and laughter rings through streets,
Soft voices rise and life resumes.
