Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Hillfire.

Under the heavy lidded morning sky,
you took a photo of me, serious faced and
tan shouldered.
Our limbs were tired
from a night without sleep, where
sirens pealed and people shouted.

A hillfire.
They said it was moving towards an old petrol station,
and unexploded shells from the war pinged high.

We watched it, cloaked in smoke;
watched as men darted about with buckets,
pale attempts to dampen the ground.
Across the headland we saw more fires break out, streaking
up hills and clawing to the sky.
As tourists, we feared the worst,
but the neighbours, locals,
still sat in their apartment and played cards, sipping
ouzo and chuckling at us.

By morning the fire was out.
The scrubby hill next to our apartment stood
black, charred, smoking;
embers hiding their fight.
But an amber sky snowed ash -
little tiny pieces that melted on hot skin.
It fell soft, and brown,
like baby moths.
I rubbed the ash between my fingers until it disappeared,
not wanting the reminder.

 
















Photo by Jill Morgan.

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Escape

Born of debris, one sweet 
fireball 
where silicates hold tight,  
hot like nothing before it, 
hell-bent on escape. 

Where brothers and sisters  
burned out and  
fell to be nothing, this meteoroid  
makes it through.  

With cosmic velocity, a  
birthday present of matter delivers itself;  
through a tear in the fabric of the atmosphere, 
a gift to us, 
deepest iron glinted with  
the flecks of time, of space.  

Like a baseball thrown way out of the stadium,  
it smashes into the desert,  
twinkling in the eye of the sun;  
that distant relative  
who looks down upon the crater as if to say  
well done, you did it, you got away. 

Monday, March 2, 2015

March, wind, tide.

Like narrow bands of coldest steel,
these rivulets of estuary lie on their backs,
metallic in shine;
picked out by wading birds, top-heavy and
lilting
curves of beaks half an S shape,
eyes like glossy roe.
Tide times flap in birdwatchers' hands
ready to be ripped out to sea,
with dropped lens caps and half a biscuit wrapper.
The wind knocks the breath out of seafront runners,
chapped legs and
watered eyes that seek the horizon line,
watching the oystercatchers enjoy the low tide.
Cold rolls in, along with the drift,
where upwards burbles of life spring up
scattering the turns and making
seaweed swim to shore.