The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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Tuesday, 2 April 2013
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea.
Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone.
Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves?
Only the not-stone board beneath me
steadies itself and is still
where wave calls to wave
where sea is a word re-writing itself
written in stone
to me, a text to my not-stone board,
pulled from the shelf.
Peaks towering above me. Strong. Still.
As stony as any landlubbery hill back home.
Powder to nothing in wavebreak and seashake
feeling the shale, the stone floor.
(As the written word, as it trembles before
the locked-in power, the power of speech.)
Tightly it locks me,
a lost soul, lost in the lost power of speech.
Dumb in the shivvering pit, in the shimmering flow
of the dark words' call to us, to me in the now.
Wave clash to wave clash, brash
in the light of the moon's yellow staff.
Pierces the stoniness. Grave-like and tunnelled.
Sea-tunnelled. Shore-runnelled. Bundled with love.
Stone after-glow of a joy from above.
Inspired by Wordle 102 at The Sunday Whirl. to whom much thanks.
The Given words were:
Moon, peak, petals, staff, lost, pit,
stone, after, calls, locks, written, powder