Letters to garden makers

The flood pushed up brushwood to the shore Linear In the direction of flow Black sea apples Swept feminine curves Stranded line of white bleached beach bone Detritus of leaf Not of human manufacture The plastic washed to sea With cleansed memory A cormorant's dive Is watched by the fishes impassive eye Paul.

We are hunkered down With orange lamps and copper tones We are clinging to the night of owls and swept up leaves Picked up on gusts Rain like billowing smoke makes sheep drip silver droplets off blue stained backs Sodden wool like wet carpets not yet woven on the loom The nant gushes and thunders its headlong dash to the sea Here we take stock And wait for answers from the gloom. Paul