I am squarely obsessed by sailing at the moment, both with dreams of the coming season and memories of past experiences on the water. Last night's poem is from the former, and this morning's came from a look back over notes I made in the arctic last year. We had the trip of a lifetime sailing north from Scotland to Svalbard and around Spitsbergen in June and I haven't written much about it really. As the geese have now begun flying north over us, don't be surprised to find me full of arctic reveries.
So, here's last night's poem.
DreamingI am dreaming of sailing over the edge
where depth seethes and imagination fails
a sail furls
a rope coils
a whale may rise
And for this morning's it might be worth knowing, if you don't already, that a less-than-berg-sized chunk of ice fallen off a glacier (dangerous to sailers) is called a growler.
'Man might be more tolerable, less fractious and smug, if he had more to fear.' J A Baker, The Peregrine.Staring out from between two cliffs
a small blue glacier
scarred by its battle with air and water
has nowhere to go.
Slow, incremental motion
moves a mountain
but the sea's toothed skin
consumes from below.
The boundary between ice and sea
We need nature to be fiercer than us
to show us like a naughty child
to growl at us, no.