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On the Rocks


by Iain James Robb


What matters these to all, below the crest,

If privilege of mind-blankness is the bay's?

Remembrance breeds yet no fathoms of its rest,

As plumb the circuit lulled at each rephrase

 

Of capture, each and over, one lone jetty

Marching only far as speech is lost in snow...

Of bevelled weights, before tide-gates that carry   

Nary answers of what left so hereago...

 

I crossed this day the thin tin-hammered moil

That rings the cliffs, and fledged between two forms

Belong to this, that ghost, who chalks the roil,

That floods the bridle spoor of unpooled storms...

 

No ships converging through the absent hail-

Of plummet-birds, that bunk the gavelled plain;

What winnowing of white limbs upon the flail,

Perturbs the umber of her murmur-main?

 

Abroad on flumeless hoops, an unshaled galleon

Could have robed itself in rocks themselves so soft...

As trillion sanded turfs, tatterdemalion

As the breath ensurfed and lost so long aloft:

 

And azure hydras arboured in a listless serry,

Cast to frothing fields, encalméd now of distant water wracks-

That pool their hairless weight far fróm the mid noon's ferry.

Forlorn Medusas ride the list óf pod-crów backs,

 

Enjambed from sapphire cities, and the plastic gardens,

Spinwhittleweed that whistles in midfollow flow:

“Ahoy, Miranda, where are lain your lustre's lessons?”

The hearts among green lilies whisper, “Jericho”...                          

 

And a city made of palms conflates no loss with passion,

In the seaweed steeps encumbered; no enquirer asks...

The rainwraiths spey no fleet's oars for its flags to lash in.

I am dissolving in a plenitude of chartless masks,

 

And vacant in the roundelay of lime-washed miles,

Forsaking triumph and platitudes, what bridges fly-

While watching for the turrets under turning smiles

The weed wreathes in the algorithmic tapestry?

 

The fractal map none search, aslant, a shattered ember,

The whirl-ships flick aslip in mist, reforge their fall;

The dance of these lies far at last and can't remember:

An albatross fleets flicker flack and shan't re-call,

 

No more than any path across. Meridian blinders

Knoughts and cross the cloudlets out, the South Cross falls

(And it is late, I must be leaving here) on lost and finders...

The masquers lapse at satellite of lampless balls

 

Below the shoonéd surface of the star-mapped brim,

 That skates the frothing lilacs at the aftermath-

Of brides to tidelets arced in parabolic bath-

Of breakers in resurgence at the surge's skim:

 

And jetsam (and it's late soon) scuffs but nothings come

Aboard the periwinkle genesis a-crest what cliffs?

The wheeling world is static as the languished skiffs,

That lift against the ride-let's equilibrium:

 

Chameleon blossoms ramaged in the sucks of surf,

Dissolving in the last gasp of their artistry-

Dead pebble-weights the water scarfs and sands that scurf...

Amniotic thrust and reflux of the laughing sea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



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