Two Poems

Poetry
Miki Byrne


Photo Credit: Mark Robinson/Flickr (CC-by-nc)

In the Shadow of Sand Point
Somerset, U.K.

The coast is not bitten into bay-curves,
chewed away by tides to leave a flat spread of sand
but is a backwashed muddy curve
nestled close to the Point.
Shadows of rearing rocks darken salt-streaked debris.
Dried, hooked by every rocky nook and finger.
Even ubiquitous plastics of civilisation are faded,
scoured, scraped,
where sea’s abrasion scrubs them raw.
Until even they take on a seared beauty,
all lumps and labels rubbed salt-clean,
or scratched milky-opaque by the sea’s glass-paper rub.
Sea-kale ties its ribbons into knots, grasses root in mud
that crusts in summer, oozes in damp.
At the horizon, clouds show.
Sun-caught, limned and illustrated, as if an artist
has lined them with a silver pen.
An expanse of tide-cleared mud, rippled like a dog’s palate,
runs toward the sea.
Sharp indents of seabirds lay patterns of their progress.

 

Angels

There are no angels in Tewkesbury.
Once they glided in loop-the-loops
over the Bloody Meadow.
Shuffled bones of old soldiers beneath the sod.
Exploited their interest in archaeology,
where battles once melee’d.
Or they played ‘skim the river’ along the Severn
till one caught a wing against a bridge
and broke bones.
They once danced waltzes at night
through the old flour mill,
flushed rats from their holes with celestial singing
but local kids freaked at the whiteness of them
when they wandered outside,
toes barely skimming the grass
and rolled balls of starlight along Back of Avon.
Sometimes they were seen on The Ham,
floating ghostly and serene through meadow grass,
only visible from waist up
and made wildflower circlets for their heads.
I’m told that they left overnight.
Offered neither notice or reason,
left the town in a state of sad puzzlement.
Others say one still lives in the Abbey belfry,
weaves love into wedding-hymn words
and surreptitiously dabbles his fingers
in the font at christenings,
to bring blessings on the child.
He accepts bells tolling, as it is always
for a good purpose and in the name of God.
I’ve never seen an angel.
Though I did find a fine, white feather
by the abbey’s great door.
I looked up in hope but it was only
the passing swoop of a bright and sunlit swan.

pencil

Website: mikibyrnepoetry.com Email: mikiandharry[at]yahoo.com

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