Tired but unwilling to sleep. Here are two poems what I wrote:
Ahem…
Drifting in the Sea
In the spaces between islands
they part the valleys of the sea.
Spinning on its surface, etching
maps in foam, bottles scrawl, slowly,
drifting in the sea. Didactic,
their wakes describe the air, the rain,
the breathing tide and moon, its lung:
rhyme salt with sky. Their terrain
moulds them, too. Swallowed by the sand,
bottles fold beneath the waves, freed
cartographers becoming one
with their topography. A feed
of glass washed clean of linguistics.
Some survive the pull of the deep.
One, I found on a beach. Within
a golden line, a shell to keep.
And “a pune, or play on words”:
Mulled Wine
The cold glass darkens with the wine
translucent. The world looks different,
distorted, if you stare through it,
comfortable in its green spread.
Its shell reflecting my shell, home,
my wine in crystal bed, a sign,
an invitation to reflect.
The surface of the glass a mime
of my actions, to be read
in each lonely echo of time.
The patterns of my room fused sand
and old grapes twist and project.
