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Gorge; Placed

Elaine Desmond

Gorge

 

A wind wandered

alone,

happy in itself.

One day it tripped

over a twig.

The wind looked closer —

two mantis locked together,

complete.

The wind smiled,

delighted by their

join.

 

The insects parted,

completed.

Then, one ate

the other.

The wind cried,

blew a world into

being with both

life and death,

placed the twig upon it

and wandered on again

almost happy in itself,

and wondered how long

it would take

the new world

to eat itself.

 

 

 

 

Placed

 

Swallows

dolphin-spark over

headland runways,

cut through wave-sewn air

like ribbon gymnasts.

Curlews       

disturbed

thread a trailing call

in hem stitches

sewing blue slivers through

listening bones.

Herons         

self contained as lighthouses

their languid sentry duty

deceptive and intent.

Companioned swans

whoop-wing

over disembowelled wrecks

historic and snug,

skewered by an ocean butcher

in a half grasp of mud.

 

 

A finger nail clip of anchor

beckons itself out of the sea,

bleached rope draped

by somnolent seaweed,

tiny sways

over seashifts

from rhino dark

to breath-held blue.

 

Summer arrivals pronounce this beauty

a revelation,           

their discovery,

at the island pier congratulate someone

on moving here and ask

rate me,             

plate me this place,

while standing by the islander

with their backs to his face.

 

 

 

 

Elaine lives in West Cork where she eavesdrops on curlews and herons. She is ever hopeful of traveling widely on a juicy horse racing accumulator win. Unpublished.