Swale Bridge Highway Chickens
(October 2004)
This new crossing noisily begins
And here, in my queuing up car,
Bathed in mellow October light,
The poem was written when the bridge was first started with the last stanza added two years later.
Swale Crossing with the old lift bridge proudly showing itself.
View from the Sheppey shore.
Bemused by the giant shadows
Pecking like hungry domestic fowl,
Highway chickens peck daintily
The black base where black top
Will offer up its soft surface
To a shining commuter stream,
Glinting jewels in the Autumn sun.
Above the highway chickens,
Birds swoop, skim the water,
Cut green and white slices
Glittering like silver, a precious
Delicate, encapsulated legacy.
Concrete fingers clutch life
From a new dug grave,
Pushing up to reach the sun;
Touching the skyline, enticing
The watcher to linger and wonder.
Sunlight limns these unfinished digits,
Softening the harsh, sculptured outlines,
Notched for a Ferro-concrete curve;
A graceful bow strung across the water;
A long awaited engineering dream.
In my mind a bridge already spans
The sparkling waters, but for now
I watch these highway chickens,
Unhurriedly, scratch the surface,
Ranging as free as my imagination.
Postscript
And now, self satisfied, contented
Mechanical fowls scratch the soil,
Behind, their creation rainbows
Over the water, busy, they seek
The elusive, mythical pot of gold.
Walking the Sheerness Shoreline
This poem is about the difference between living in England and watching the sea of the South East coast and the Waitamata of Auckland New Zealand.
In a way this could be a lament but I leave the reader space to find out for themselves - it could be a fond memory or even a parting. I wrote the thing so how the hell do I know?
Sheerness Beach
This sea
Washes weak,
Mutters northern songs,
Dun coloured tunes,
Flat tones waiting
For the sharp menace
Of a storm;
But there is nothing,
Nothing to see,
Nothing to rage against,
Not this day,
Instead soft notes
Play a gentle rhythm
Against the insipid wall.
The tempered ocean
Languidly embraces;
Sunken, grey wracke stone,
Floating seabirds
And other flotsam,
Mud slapped pebbles
Stippled with sand.
This mild, wishy-washy
Saline mutterer
Turns, at times,
A noisy monster
Snarling and biting
Angrily lashing out,
Grabbing rocks
With wild fingers
Pulls the shore apart,
Bangs on the metal doors
Scours Ferro-concrete,
Tears wood to shreds;
A raging orchestra
Hammering a rhythm,
Looking for an entry.
I watch the muttering sea
And see a dark mountain
Above sparkling water,
Red flowered trees
Dancing in the sun,
White sands shining
Dolphins dancing.
Bright waters alive
Dotted with white
Sharks fin sails
Big ships sliding
Past the buoys
A city marching
To the shore
Led by a tropical drum,
A humming summer storm;
A cyclone of sails
Running for shelter
Or like the errant knaves
Stride the waves
Against the tide.
Sparkling, dancing water
Spins, whirls, faster faster
Thigh slapping, tongue tipping
To a cyclone’s fury]
Waitamata Waitamata
Waitamata Waitamata
A southern song
Calls me to remember
Where I belong;
This ocean, washing
My memory, draws me
To a summer season
A spread of volcanic islands
A wailing Karanga
This song sings
Where fishers cast
Their baited lines
Dream catchers
That take my
Pacific nature
By surprise.