Surface Tension.

Hidden in plain sight,
on the surface of the frost torn beach,
where your eyes never look
and your clumsy feet tramp,
there are other worlds.

Delicate, careworn caves
with entrances fashioned
from sparkling splinters
allow your mind to wander unhindered
into sunlit pits of silent water.

Silver trails of secret joy
slip silently across the sand.
The soft grey dullness of winter
explodes into shafts of sunlight,
freeze framed by cold air.

Soft, biddable clay is eased
into an unfamiliar straitjacket.
Pebbles, painted en plein air,
are held in accidental still lives,
and finished with a clear varnish of ice.

Nature, the restless pattern maker,
has thrown down it’s ancient dice,
taken the raw materials of a winter day
and made something new to be going on with.
A practice piece to be melted in the sun.




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