In almost lack of movement of the summer night, when sun
still glares, reflects itself in sea, I walk across the meadow
sparkled, dewed. There’s a sea-gull calling from above,
but when I reach the shore, it rests again. The waves are
soft, a memory of sea wind afternoons, when sails were
filled, and children played. I listen as the water lap the shore
and think of seaways to the south, of leaving and returning,
of buccaneering and of staying put. I realize how much the
stillness in my staying means, and after counting waves,
I walk across the meadow and return to sleep beside you.
To remain in stillness in this almost lack of movement.
Brendan calls for poetry on stillness at toads, and also wants us to use some movements from a poem as a starting point. My start here is from Thomas Tranströmer’s “The blue House”, there is nothing quite as still as a Nordic, summer night filled with light. I will also link up to poetry pantry tomorrow morning.
November 12, 2016