Residue
Fossilised nests of Potter wasps
trace graceful patterns
on rocks along the coastal path.
Extinct now, these insects
leave their mark.
Below, the sea speaks and gulls cry
as they glide effortlessly above.
Love of the ocean swells and ebbs.
And my father’s voice seeps through spume.
A favourite song:
‘I must go down to the seas again …’
Focus.
‘A wild call and a clear call’
All of it comes back
the front room, my sister at the piano;
melody and lyrics etched in memory.
A lone egret
strikingly white against black volcanic rock,
shocks the eye. My father’s hair was light,
eyes pale grey. He aspired to the tones
of some great tenor: Caruso, Gigli and such
yet his form was lean, like the bird’s.
Elegant in spirit, lacking clout, outdone
by feeble heart and lungs,
ever reaching for those sky high notes.
The melody runs on to closing lines:
‘And all I ask is a quiet sleep
And sweet dreams
When the long trick’s over’.
Surf seethes and foams pitilessly.
Time ticks on.
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