"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time." (T S Eliot)
"A dark and chanted verse is what I am." (
Forough Farrokhzad)

Sunday, December 16, 2012


Collaroy was cold and wet today.
The surf spat like a spoiled toad
And the wind washed faces with spray,
While a dozen walkers to’d and fro’d.

Gritty grey clouds crowded
Looking stately, steely, stern and gruff;
Hulking behind the glass-eyed houses
Peering from the plateau above the bluff.

The sea took in the monochrome sky
And turned into that greeny grainy blue
That never pleases quite enough
To achieve the level of a lovely view.

Often when the slow churning sky turns dark
The cold water seems warmer than the bitter air.
But today those waves of creamy chop and froth
Were too ragged with rips and tows to try their fare.

Then the rain swept up from the south
Careening across, making bubbles like blisters on the swell.
Showered droplets drenched sand into patterned pockmarks
While walkers stretched their steps into runs of rude farewell.

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