I could sit on the grass

I could sit on the grass

The green of it

Bruised in the heat

Whitening in the drying

Dying for lack of precipitation.

I could linger

In the hope of conjuring an image

As the sea swirls in mastery,

Outlasting the elements,

Fitting snugly into the bay

From one horizon to the other.

The one I never see

Always hidden, in the over there,

Where the hot sun cools

Its fiery incandescence

A beaten shield

A fallen idol

A knight in search of majesty

Plunging down, tempering its ardour

Annealed into softened

Pastel tones.

A pliable composite

A discussion topic

Barely recognisable as a deity

Until the morning.

I will not sit so long

As to see its rising

From the oily deep

A momentous victory

Of everlasting ingenuity.

How did they believe in magic

When nothing I do or say

Will ever make a ha’penny’s worth

Of difference

To the lie of this or any other land

But the grass will grow

With a spot of watering

And there will be rain

Eventually.

There is a gathering

The clouds grow heavier

There is no mystery to it

Not to my revealing,

But with every laboured breath

The humidity in the air

Feels more like a wet slap

In the face

Than a sea breeze.