Rhyll. Photo: John Buttrose
Rhyll
I have drifted here,
Not by design, but
Gently tapped by the ripples
Of time and circumstance,
Flotsam perhaps,
Until I found myself grounded
In this ‘sleepy’ town.
There is no necessity,
But I pass these boats,
Old friends almost,
Every day,
To pause,
To breathe while
Enfolded by the peace
Brought by being still,
Beside the sea.
Beneath the quiet,
A restlessness,
Movement and change.
The slow rhythm of the tide,
Measured by the music of the spheres,
Now, gently seeping, creeping over the sand,
Between the rocks.
Later, the smaller boats tilt awkwardly
On bare mud flats,
And a narrow strip of sand shivers as the
Tiny crabs scuttle.
The tricks of clouds and sunlight
Please me.
The sea,
The deepest, Grecian blue
While the sun shines,
Fades on a windless winter day
To a mirroring silver,
And the sky and the sea seem
As one
I have drifted here,
Not by design, but
Gently tapped by the ripples
Of time and circumstance,
Flotsam perhaps,
Until I found myself grounded
In this ‘sleepy’ town.
There is no necessity,
But I pass these boats,
Old friends almost,
Every day,
To pause,
To breathe while
Enfolded by the peace
Brought by being still,
Beside the sea.
Beneath the quiet,
A restlessness,
Movement and change.
The slow rhythm of the tide,
Measured by the music of the spheres,
Now, gently seeping, creeping over the sand,
Between the rocks.
Later, the smaller boats tilt awkwardly
On bare mud flats,
And a narrow strip of sand shivers as the
Tiny crabs scuttle.
The tricks of clouds and sunlight
Please me.
The sea,
The deepest, Grecian blue
While the sun shines,
Fades on a windless winter day
To a mirroring silver,
And the sky and the sea seem
As one