On the way home from Skibb. Empty roads, birdsong, lush hedgerows. It was so long since I had driven further than Clon it felt like an odyssey. I stopped off to take this photo. The summer yachts have all disappeared. It was still and quiet in the harbour which would usually have been heaving on a day like this.
MARINAQuis hic locus quaeRegio, quae mundi plaga?What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the
What images return
O my daughter.
Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird,
Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Those who suffer the ecstacy of the animals, meaning
Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place
What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger –
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the
Whisper and small laughter between leaves and hurrying
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.
Bowsprit cracked with ice and paint cracked with heat.
I made this, I have forgotten
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September.
Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.
The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live for a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.
What seas what shores what granite islands towards my
And woodthrush calling through the fog