Aground
The slick would engulf
the conscious coastline into disorder,
facing a wintry sea
the estuary braced
against nature's principles,
the prescriptive balance threatened
by a stench like genocide,
the malevolence of human actions,
mute dollops
on a treasure of sands;
the praised mythology of dolphins,
the guillemots, cormorants, grey seals aground,
their character despoiled
on a torn signature of shore,
a matted warrant,
the covering tide their pall.
Dolphins
These are the jewels
that only the sharp eye
can imagine,
the humility of nature
primed liked explosives
to shock the unsuspecting mind;
an interval
when knowledge can intervene
on this arched journey,
as time's technology pauses
allowing the laboratory of the senses to arrive.
Bracelet Bay
I watch for a curve of lucid sea
with a swell searching incessantly
for a delicate wrist inland.
The shirr of parallel waves
folding like linen onto the shore,
sound and movement
glistening with the blood
burnished by the friction of salt
and innocent air.
Fine features of torn,
the pitch of place,
a cadence free
on a shelf of steady rock,
with a line
unbroken
by an erosion of walkers
on a scar of paths
discovering the way towards home.
Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His latest collection is The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).
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