Shownotes
Cliff
Ofelia ferch Rhos
Salt spattered on chalk carves out
the rough-hewn shape of thought:
the cliff is a canvas where
they escape me, and become
mammoths on sandstone,
scattered by stick-figured spears.
Magpies perch listless as dew
and wing their words over the sea.
The water ripples their birdsong agon.
Clouds crowd in anticipation-
I am the heavens surrogate on earth
they would rapture me, and leave
the cliff empty as a forgotten age.
The stones know no different.
I am their occupying army.
I kick the stones,
kick the moss,
kick the cliff loose
so that landslipped rocks
chase down the incline.
The waves retreat-
capricious tide.
Arrogant as weeds.
Pretentious petrichor.
Dappled sun on dimpled sea
reaches over the horizon
like the old joke.
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