Gentle valleys, severed from the sea
By the pebble bank
Prominent, like a runner’s spine
Skim-stones at one end
Door chocks, the other;
Going nowhere, yet doomed
Just the same
By the sea roar
Its washes, swashes and crashes –
Its tickles, caresses and claws –
This unrequited love,
Only stopping when the Moon goes
Is silent, distracted,
For that briefest moment.

To the north, the reeds sway like concert-goers
Cylindrical heads, swooning like lighters
In rhythmical hands;
To the south, the fresh water
Skimmed by the breeze,
Wears fluttering white wings –
Wavelets dance like Chiffchaffs or warblers
Hoovering up insects whilst out
For their late evening supper.

On one side of the Ley, gentility & calm
On the other, menace, lurking

A whisper through leaves

There she is again; the voice, dulcet, soft
half-sung, semi-distant
audible, but faint; clear, yet indistinguishable
a whisper to me, gently, skin to skin
lip to ear, touching
a caress, sonic, wave forms that reach out, unseen
and come to shore with the riffle
of brine water over beach stone
or morning breeze through beech leaves
an echo, of past lives and what will become