Two Poems

Poppies

1
Sunlight. The field blazing with distances
and the red hems fluttering as witnesses
of all edges in the wind,
light as the sea foam
overlapping the stones.
Drops flashing
in the rich hush of the grass
and the heat of its own sleep.
Come down to this field,
brush a handful of the bounty,
you won't feel any wavering, any edginess,
your heart loaded
with the verge of the bloom.

2
Just popped up by the railway line
you startle me gently,
children astounded, gobsmacked,
grabbing their urgent share of sky
in the heat of their gaze,
you announce vast deepening grass
whose buzzing enters me as a bounty
and casts a flushed gust of silence
in the air's sweeping irises.
You are nimble in the wind.
I adhere to your hushed shot
that unwraps my heart's tracks.

 

Future

Spawning, raw white light on the street,
gusts of wind shaking shutters and skinny treetops,

buds not so visible yet, but sensed
lurking in their nooks, tiny eyes, pinpointed,

the sky above, flashes of unending sheets,
the glow of stretched linen, lashing and dry.

At the end of the street, the beach,
a strip of cream pavement blurring into ochre sand.

You enter it and the wind steadies its grip, becomes a single gust,
streams of scraps, sticks, seaweeds sail from east to west.

The dog runs after whatever he can,
grabs a thick, salty bit of a rope, his prey,

shakes and shreds it and suddenly leaves, runs straight.
The horizon absorbs a red tongue and a dash of fur,

while the waves spread their descent on one side,
a rolling roar of swarming calm.

The spray lashes on, you look in front,
take in the naked, bright line of the beyond

and for a moment suspend your breath, you are glad,
there's only openness and nothing more you can know.