This is a multi-part message in MIME format. ------=_NextPart_000_0007_01BF973B.71D4CF60 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable Walking to Fort Camden Wind shakes the leaves. They=20 move with the sea's restless shiver. This is deep in us. We feel it running along the waves pulse, ruffling like the tug in these lines. Fort Camden has the sound of herring gulls and waders through the elmwood where branches bear the heave of bracken. I am making land that never changes. Of this be sure. Chained in the hill's grass a corncrake crackles his center of the world. Now we know eternity and we can walk. Miles and miles to the save harbour. We have=20 a long rememberance, yours and mine. Stride out, keep pace and hope we will be there before the night falls. I will show you stepping stones ringed by black water, old sounds along the path, an old gift of poetry caught up in reeds, streams, boglands, broken walls of blackberry. Quarrel with me like sparrows in the yellow gorse. Or climb down to the estuary alone. Stare at the estuary birds and come back with their voice 'Turly, turly, turly'. You know how much I love this walk and the anxious waiting at the end. Morning Return Will someone not know how to say just one thing - words have come in alone=20 long before we invented them -=20 that is both beautiful and true=20 and something be lost if I do not write you this. Remember=20 words are not a minute's show, more like when the wind drops,=20 the trees straighten up,=20 the sky clears, and water=20 carries home the late boats.=20 Like when we friends wait=20 to wave them in. Seagulls=20 catch behind the early=20 trawlers fish thrown=20 back to sea, waiting all=20 night on the quayside. Not that this is about=20 saying something new=20 but getting so there is craft between us and we=20 see each as we can because=20 we cannot see each as we=20 would. We wait for morning and hear the recitation and response of incoming=20 tide, small feelings it has=20 invented for the great sea, that we have not the=20 words for, words we=20 are delighted with.=20 Either way we lose=20 things and fly back to=20 the boats' compassion.=20 Every word is a new=20 longing for harbours to come=20 back to. Like ancient ships,=20 ancient stories. Let's gather what only we can use and leave to the flocks what flocks=20 fight for. What is ours is only what we cannot do without, that greater gift to give people forever like a steady wind to sway them=20 and that higher gift to move and meet, two only still longing after night. No place is safe as harbours. Tristia Ovid from Crosshaven Sun-light evening, a chair out front overlooking Crosshaven harbour, clustered yachts and seagulls on a bookcase sailing Ovid's scarlet leather tears, final touches to a room. Another boat and baskets filled with postcards. This house, this place built for summer and steep stairs to climb. Pay the boatman. Make a list of guests=20 expected tomorrow. They won't be down today. Tomorrow I will meet the boat and show them over my house. Today I rock the chair out front and wait. I have a white hat and white coat and walking stick and I can make it to the wharf and back. I was=20 indicted but of what exactly? I don't know. My books need dusting and my words. How all goes rusty near the sea, the mind, the memory, names, plain English, plain feelings, places! ------=_NextPart_000_0007_01BF973B.71D4CF60 Content-Type: text/html; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable <!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN">
Wind shakes the leaves. They
move with the sea’s restless
shiver. This is deep in us.
We feel it running along
the waves pulse, ruffling
like the tug in these lines.
Fort Camden has the sound
of herring gulls and waders
through the elmwood where
branches bear the heave of
bracken. I am making land
that never changes. Of this
be sure. Chained in the hill’s
grass a corncrake crackles
his center of the world. Now
we know eternity and we
can walk. Miles and miles
to the save harbour. We have
a long rememberance,
yours and mine. Stride out,
keep pace and hope we will
be there before the night falls.
I will show you stepping
stones ringed by black water,
old sounds along the path, an
old gift of poetry caught up in
reeds, streams, boglands,
broken walls of blackberry.
Quarrel with me like sparrows
in the yellow gorse. Or climb
down to the estuary alone. Stare
at the estuary birds and come
back with their voice ‘Turly,
turly, turly’. You know
how much I love this walk and
the anxious waiting at the end.
Will someone not know how
to say just one thing
- words have come in alone
long before we invented them -
that is both beautiful and true
and something be lost if I do
not write you this. Remember
words are not a minute’s show,
more like when the wind drops,
the trees straighten up,
the sky clears, and water
carries home the late boats.
Like when we friends wait
to wave them in. Seagulls
catch behind the early
trawlers fish thrown
back to sea, waiting all
night on the quayside.
Not that this is about
saying something new
but getting so there is
craft between us and we
see each as we can because
we cannot see each as we
would. We wait for morning
and hear the recitation
and response of incoming
tide, small feelings it has
invented for the great sea,
that we have not the
words for, words we
are delighted with.
Either way we lose
things and fly back to
the boats’ compassion.
Every word is a new
longing for harbours to come
back to. Like ancient ships,
ancient stories. Let’s gather
what only we can use and
leave to the flocks what flocks
fight for. What is ours is only
what we cannot do without,
that greater gift to give
people forever like a steady
wind to sway them
and that higher gift to move
and meet, two only
still longing after night.
No place is safe as harbours.
Ovid from Crosshaven
Sun-light evening, a chair out front
overlooking Crosshaven harbour,
clustered yachts and seagulls on a
bookcase sailing Ovid’s scarlet
leather tears, final touches to a room.
Another boat and baskets filled with
postcards. This house, this place built
for summer and steep stairs to climb.
Pay the boatman. Make a list of guests
expected tomorrow. They won’t be down
today. Tomorrow I will meet the boat and
show them over my house. Today I rock
the chair out front and wait. I have a white
hat and white coat and walking stick and I
can make it to the wharf and back. I was
indicted but of what exactly? I don’t know.
My books need dusting and my
words. How all goes rusty near
the sea, the mind, the memory, names,
plain English, plain feelings, places!