Poems written by Nicholas Rowe, from the small island of Guernsey in the Atlantic Ocean.
Far from the fumes, our
polluted illusion in
clear resolution.
~
A distant hum outlines the
silence. The falling sea settles in
oily currents by the rocks.
~
A large gull slowly flaps above the
channel, pitches, meets its reflection, splashing
sofly, drifting backward on the tide.
~
A caterpillar crawls in
the hot white sand. A magical bird
flutters in shimmering light.
~
Black smoke joins a brown
band staining the horizon,
car engines straining.
Sparkling white sunlight
on wavelets in the cove, cooled
by early spring sea.
~
Air warms in sunlit patches
sheltered from the salty breeze, coloured
by the first flowers of spring.
~
The colourful warm,
intoxicating flood of
summer on the way.
I remember, at the age of four,
a violent storm that blew outside
like nothing else upon this earth –
when I was taken near high tide
to feel that force of Nature’s birth.
Within the shelter of the land
the trees would sway and whip and sigh,
below the dark and dreary sky.
Before the beach a bank stood high,
with us behind, within its lee;
we climbed to face the deafening roar
and fought to stand upon the shore,
and saw the savage sea.
~
Far offshore great mountains boomed,
crashing in heaping boiling whites,
spray streaks pulling through the air –
bright in the green and purple light.
The salty blast blew through my hair,
blew through my clothes like paper, soaking
my face, my eyes, and stinging my nose.
I shuddered, cold from scalp to toes,
in awe as Nature’s violence rose.
~
And here I am in silent air,
nothing moving in this room,
trapped in a timeless, heavy gloom.
~
But I remember being there,
and once again I long to be
a shaking figure fixed before
a mighty storm upon the sea
with huge waves crashing on the shore.
~
And I will see that storm arrive,
my feelings swelling with its rise,
a fire burning in my eyes,
insignificant beneath tremendous skies,
the Atlantic blast beating through me,
a smile behind my wild eyed stare,
knowing that I should be there –
a part of Nature, with Nature in me,
alive in that moment, with the soul of the sea.
Winter leaves a land
of still anticipation,
bathed in orange light.
~
Biscuits, coffee, nestled in
his ship – a cutter perched on rusty
barrels, small before the sun.
~
A nearby nest of lanes – the garden
done, she heads to yellow flames, as coldness comes,
and cuts, and the colours merge to grey.
~
And as they sink within the
night, I think of them, the single house,
the trees and whispering sea.
~
When I return, the
smiles will be warm, and I will
find a part of me.
I had time to think,
standing by the sea. My main
challenge is clear – me.
~
Suddenly, I feel full of
hope. I know what to do, to become
the person I aspire to.
~
But first I shall stay,
to be one with this world of
passing winter grey.
Silver purple night –
same light that barely traced a
paltry evening disk.
~
Ceaseless resonance of sea.
Clear oystercatcher call travels through
this cool amphitheatre.
~
Clarity of mind,
fine-tuned, no longer blinded,
sensing inner self.
Gradual hidden
mass scouring rocks – strong sunlight
flashing over black.
~
The world gently bends around
the silent water, my energy
draining down to the darkness.
~
Delicate branching
fractals crossing land, pouring
softly to the sea.
~~
Note: this poem is a spin off concept from the poem ‘Swept Away’ (Menu, 2018, Poems, Swept Away)
