The clouds of May have their linings
as they balloon up over the sea.
Everything has its center:
the sticky buds of the sea-grape
turn to stiff red leaves that sprout
within the green, still tacky
to the touch, like paint that hasn’t
yet had time to dry.
The sand has its clean rim still
as the tide retreats. Before
the jet-skis’ scream, before
fishing boats going out
before the first footprint,
the silence: like listening
to your own blood, like memory
before entry into the noisy world,
things ripening unseen.
— Rosalind Brackenbury
Invisible Horses Rosalind Brackenbury Paperback | Apr 2019 in store$17.10