Saraswatink

A boat house quietly observes the skylight reflection of azure rectangular ponds

set in a line of corrugated slate ridges of teal blue coastal moss.

Seapinks, stone-cropped into the fissures of crumbling walls, lollipop into the maritime path of May.

Glimpse in slow motion Davy Grey’s free fall to Seven Wells Hollow.

Time has drifted and stopped like a canoe bottled in a cove.

Sea-anchored to the tide.

Time leads lonely souls to the burrow of this path,

to hide.

In quiet contemplation of a fossiliferous past, crumbling under the dust of its porcelain cliffs.

As if Kimmeridge shale had been an unfair accident of fate.

Engulfing nature’s Eocene,

fossilising memories obscene, into layers of sediment smoke.