In a twisting of the tumbling Wyre
inspirited by April showers,
between steep banks of cicely
smelling of aniseed and myrrh,
lies swollen Ophelia tangled in willow,
the river her bed, its ripples her pillow.
Romance brought low by poverty,
her melancholy prince, sad suitor,
set sail on Wyre tide, New Worlds to discover.
She wove forget-me-nots into a lover’s favour,
and cried hot tears to see him go,
quick with the child he’d never know.
Swallows skim now across her liquid grave,
wild ramson bows its head above the flow.
Her honeyed tresses look almost alive
in this rolling rinse of rusty peat water,
swirling in eddies - as if she’s trying to break free
to follow her Hamlet down Wyre to the sea.
soft and slippery,
still she dips her toes,
paddles to the other bank,
trusty Wyre Rose.
Beyond the cabin door
Metallic blackness unwinds, revealing sea and shore.
Salt watercolour seeps into sleepy eyes.
Soft powder blue, a wash of endless sky,
Shot with sugar arrows to the tip of Morecambe Bay.
Copper sand rolls in like cool carpet at my feet,
strewn with pebble voyagers and
crumpled lager can, clutter of the night,
invading gull kissed walkway of the day.
Settling on rocks that pier into the surf,
unexpected touch brings voices.
Windermere days of burning coal and whistling steam,
Brasso, pink on copper kettle,
and the port and starboard lamps.
Crimson swirling into crystal water,
Seeping out of crescent scar an inch above my heel,
sliced open on the slimy rocks at Wray.
Beyond the wind farm ranks,
a distant boat, bobs like a bath toy,
in shadow lands between the sky and sea.
On shore, the stone hewn ogre of the deep
groans, longing for his precious stranded shell.
Sea breath billows into winter lungs
and we rise to share the spray at water’s edge,
bursting into waves of carefree dance.
Adele V Robinson