by grimbeau



No aims, no lords, just me, and the sea…

Snug in the lap and rock, the slop and plash

Diving deeper, the sleeper plumbs new depths

Of woozy deep, slithers, warm down the unseeable

Billowing liquid flames of the core, the temenos,

Breeched and hewn by exquisite heat, forging a

Pillowed inglenook in which to mosspot ease.

This is no dark blue luxus dreamt up

in tune or sketch, no symphonic flood,

folk smoke trail stream or ramble.

It lies here with the corpuscle

glitching grike soft timorous in the mammoth,

anemone corner of the one now clear

smiling eye behind the fourth stone.