Apricot Press

I
but today I stride alone.
Cornish coastal coffin route,
colourless breezes huff
in an amber mood, warm
as tide sucks blue, turquoise rips,
darkening pebbles dig the steadily
sloping beach, clouds pattern,
wheeling beady whites hover
overhead as I walk on
walk faster walk further,
loving the path which demands a day.

II
Sudden splotches from a blackening
plum sky whisper
of a brooding storm.
A spread of cyan black
throws a thunder notice.
Drips drench the known path,
an uncontrolled sluice joins,
elements dare defiance.
Wind menace
with thunder in three parts
relishes the opening act.
Uncorked storm
     rain drums
           dents my head
                   slaps my ears
                          dulls my sense
                               stills sound
                                      squeezes my pulse.
                    I was a feather, I was colours. A heartbeat.

III
Gull kites
wingbeat a rhythm
raindrops slide
vision blinks
hat spirals
off afar
knees knuckle
the cliff gorse
bloodies my purchase.
I clasp roots
stones dislodge
rain douses
cliff thorns dig
deep into skin
but roots cling
fear the wind
blunt power yanks
my limpit grip
as land and sea rock.

IV
My heart alone could bounce
me off this face of thorns.
Wind butts my frailty,
I could be a soul creep, a cliff slump,
end      of me.
                   Calling Mother
                         scholar of heaven
                              bring me your strength
                                       hand me your shoes.

                         Sons will not see my coffin carried on this path.

Photo credit: Mike Erskine