Skip to main content

Seaweed

Seaweed

I close my eyes 
and breathe -
smell the seaweed
strewn across the sand,
hauntingly familiar,
the mind-madness
momentarily, magically 
arrested.
Old memories
capture me
enrapture me
and I am free
to wander
through old dreams.
Child, girl, woman
in moments of bliss
on English days.
Cold seas, 
shells and seaweed.

Or the summer smell
of chalky country lanes - 
of hot tar melting
on the road, shimmering 
like oily water in the sun - 
or a meadow,
cowslips and cowpats 
sharing the space.

As I raise my face
in this foreign land 
looking for release, 
the smell of  seaweed 
more evocative than any perfume
rescues me.
It winds itself around me, 
lingering, like longing does.
Healing.

Senses saturated,
I drift away.
The generous sea
sends me home 
on scented waves of salt. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Book of Poetry

JUST ME -  A BOOK OF POETRY Acknowledgement: I am who I am because of my children who changed me into a woman and fulfilled that most basic of needs; the many friends and strangers who touched me as they passed through my life and to the special influence  of those who still walk beside me even though they are no longer here - my Jewish grandmother for whom I was named and my brave and unassuming mother - who both unconsciously showed me how to be steadfast when chaos reigns; to the ghosts of ancestors, some famous, some notorious and all colourful; and to the unique times that shaped me. Because of them, I continue to enjoy the journey - all of it. 2014. Refugee. Sunlight pierces shadow mingles mellow in the garden, highlighting hibiscus - home for hummingbirds, only yards way from teeming traffic and feet pounding dreams into the debris on the street. Watching from that silent, inner space I wonder then whose plan it was to create such beauty from the compo
2 comments
Read more

The Art and the Act of Writing & Reading

I love the act of writing whether putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. All of it  - whether I am creating poetry, essays, copy or ghost writing. And I love writing letters  as well as receiving them. I wish this had not gone out of  style or been replaced by the quick soundbite or messaging. I love the process. Writing for me is tactile. Poetry for instance must first be written with pen and notebook. There is something particular about physically connecting to the paper and it must be the right paper. I have many notebooks for this purpose and they are chosen very carefully for size and feel and sometimes for a message they might have imprinted on them. Similarly, the pens must also be special whether by colour, shape or a unique design. How they feel in my hand and how fluidly they write is very important to the process for me.  When I am writing it feels the same as if I were painting with a brush on a canvas. The page is my canvas and the paint translates my tho
1 comment
Read more