The Swimmer—Cottesloe

Strange,
watching the ocean:
a wave roll across white sands,
only to leave as it arrives.

Stand on a rock-strewn groin;
waves crash upwards,
fine spray mist- explodes,

and no matter which way you stand
it hits you in the face.

Swim in it,
drift on its calmness;
it turns rough, buffeting you around:

its curved swirling mouth catches,
pummels you

without remorse;
the waves roll-tumble-churning,
swallow you, then spit you out
leaving you stranded—a beached whale.

Beyond the walls

Here on the inside
where the walls isolate
create boundaries, our barriers;

twin orbed suns angled downwards
splay shadows, seen unseen
across flaking layers of dust
and jaded paint;

randomly
on the ceilings, unmoving
cobwebs cling,
graffiti.

Though I am quiet
the deep deep quiet - lingers;
I never knew that silence
could ache.

Over coffee I dream
I hear the murmur of angels,
the beating of hearts
of loves which once slept
beside me;

somewhere
the air is alive with words,
whispers of the night, beautiful eyes
skin on skin.

I never thought
that I could feel again.

© Copyright, David Barnes.
All rights reserved.