DHRUPAD 22 (by the sea)
See see how it is how it is how the air is honey, honey now
and these clouds of milky love that drift so drift drift so slow sometimes,
so slow so so hard to see in which ways, where where do they go
they come they go so slow.
A sea too that breathes slow in sighs and sighing
coming going sighing shores. The waters turquoise,
turquoise sliding violet on violet with hardly a ripple, with hardly a wave.
At its edges the colour goes the colour goes to distant distant shine of light, the tiny far off cliffs of Gower, a radiant line of sand,
and birdsong from somewhere by here somewhere
in the cliffside blowsy bending bushes.
We are pulled down here funnelled down here
by a sighing wish for beauty, drifting down to the coasts drifting like sheep do in sunshine down down to the coasts.
And our eyes gathered up, turning and returning to this horizon this same singular steady horizon.
All the painters all the poets hunting beauty to become beauty to feel beauty, the weigh of it and know it.
A fly buzzes buzzes bounce bouncing off window glass, to get through to get through to get into that beyond that beyond to pass the invisible no,
to join the eternal, free and spacious world.
The cliffs here, like the hills of home move from bluff to smudge to etched deep etched edge with time and tide and sliding light,
though nothing can push this horizon from its certain line, nothing stop our eyes ever drifting over there.
Our own whisper thoughts slow slow then cease (almost), and music, even, except the breath of the wave of the wave the wave the wave on the folded bays out of sight below the cliffs here
bouncing green with sea kale and valerian, salt sweet and grasping each sandy earthed crevice there.
The poets, the painters, all the lovers all the lovers,
the long roads, even, longing for endings and sunshine and salt sweet salt tang, we all, all drift, drift down
funnelled by love funnelled by this beautiful distance
lying in sunlight signed by a moon in the drift drift blue slow blue sky roof the long slow day drift in the curved quiet bays
and the arc of sand and the nibbled shore
and the smiling houses all lined up
to see to see
to see
and be
within it
all.
—
—
simonhlilly 