Breezin’

Penrhyn Llŷn Peninsula

 

The wind does not prevail

whilst the willow weeps

and listens

combing its hair

 

The yard arms swing

over the sun

salt rivers dry up

if they have the cheek

 

The years have lost their woods

deforested by human reason

and the living corpse

of hope, passes away

 

Tardy actions before the dawn

arrive at twilight

when all the sockets

are empty of eyes

 

Tinkerbell, has been laid to rest

wrapped in mundane threads

where belief never came

before the final whistle

 

The ghost rider rattles spurs

into the breath of silence

to speak no more,

no more evil

 

On the oak tree bench

now stumped and caught behind

horizon gazing, far away

the boundaries have hit for six

 

The crystal pond of morrow morn

shows the anemone memory

of spiny sticklebacks

where the hackles rise heavenward

 

As anger washes over

with the bile of a thousand livers

the carved marble headstones wait

for this too, shall pass

 

The clay of dreams

has already set too hard

to be moulded into a shape

it did not ever want to be

 

The kiln of time awaits

the misshapen and ungainly

no matter what the wills decree

what they would have liked it, be

 

And if the wind changes

faces will be stuck like that

forever, as the saying goes.

Hark, I see the compass veer!!

 

Soon the ebb draws the water back

a sandbar undresses coyly

yet keeps now treasure hidden

for X cannot mark the spot

 

Twelve hours hence to bathe again

and count the sand eels and dab,

the rag worms and skate

And this too, shall pass