Look to your right as we pass
Notice the tidal wash on the grass -
The dried remains of last week’s high tide
Now exposed to sun and wind.
A twig brought down in a recent gale
From far upstream, beyond the wave’s ride,
Wind-blown blossom lost its vibrant colour,
All now golden brown,
Soon to be absorbed into the ground
Gone until the next high tide.
Notice the tree roots high and dry,
Twisted into poetic shapes unsculpted,
Raw, not meant to see the light.
A roosting place for a nesting wren
Taking a chance on the vagaries of the tide.
A climbing frame for an eager toddler
Learning to be brave.
Pity now the tree roots left naked and bare,
Waiting, waiting for the next high tide.
A path of moonlight flows to the sea
black like soft pillows bordering
Two dots of light dance
like fireflies in the dark
stopping to focus on sand below
a curse as metal strikes metal
torches dropped in the sand
the treasure is not worms tonight.
Old Weather Tales
On Wyre river bank,
ancient weinds pave down to water’s edge,
A crooked ash is tipped by breeze,
to trail her pink bud fingers
through mountain gathered flow.
She rises late this spring,
her oak companion, already in full show.
Old weather tales predict Summer
fragrant as the sweet wild rose
The farmer’s child interprets portents.
“Ash in leaf before the oak predicts an earth bound soak.
Yet oak so green before the ash, will only bring a splash.”
I see the hawthorn,
buxom with a bloom like fallen snow.
Another sooth I know.
Abundant blossom brings a russet
for bird life.
Old weather tales foretell
that childhood seasons find reprise.
Summer dry but Winter freeze.
Adele V Robinson
Silt and Roses
Less than a lifetime ago
where Wyre and Irish Sea commingled,
waves washed right up to the esplanade
splashing those who strode atop
with surprises of spray.
The brief passage of time
has wrought a subtle coastal change;
and now a strand of silt and shingle
on which wild roses grow
interposes between the promenader
and Fleetwood’s estuarine flow.