Italic bird (Hobby over Beckley Woods, late summer)

A dark calligraph scratched onto the sky,
Sudden, gone.
Reappearing below the treeline, inky colours:
Blue black, permanent blue,
Diving down.
Up again, accented with prey;
Dragonfly snacked, moving south.
Next year.
Till then, a sharp italic form etched
On my mind’s eye.

Rye Harbour 360 (3 x 120 degrees)

I: West 120

Fairlight. Fair. Light.
A blue headland against a cyan sky
vignettes to milk.
A light which drops and sprinkles its brightness
like glass crystal, spiking my eyes.
A white gleams avocet, tern and gull
washed with clear brilliance.
A black full stop on the horizon.
Life. Boat.

II: East 120

Camber. Clamber. Chamber.
Arms waving in the wind, Mexican style,
white, white, white, grey, grey, white,
grey again.
Feigned defenders against the advance
of sea and sand and salt.
A disappearance behind the dunes
sinking under the greying sky.
Drowning. Waving.

III: South 120

Sea. Sear. Seam.
Kale green then warm blue,
white edges fleck the shoreline.
High tide reaches up and over,
winding its way, finding its feet
wet across the marsh.
My ears are channels,
sifting, filtering, filling with sounds.
Ebbing. Flowing.


Huddled and hunkered down against the rain


Resilient bands, awaiting a signal to launch skywards

Suddenly. Up!

A group in flight: twisting and turning in unison

White, gold across the greying cloud.

Their restless pirouettes, forming and reforming

In a choreographed descent.

Back to land.