Water's Edge

Water’s Edge

A sunlit jetty, jutting out to sea;
a wall of rocks resist the lapping tide;
the Water’s Edge cafe is serving tea;
two tethered yachts are dancing side-by-side.
Waves absorb the jetty, drink to the bar;
it’s an all-day breakfast, a seafood quiche;
jelly-fish, tangled nets and caviar;
loose jib on the Cactus Wren breaks its leash;
a docile doberman lounges at large,
waitress brings him water in a blue dish;
father and son wave to a passing barge;
a day without limits… just as you’d wish.
. Today’s consumption will be time well spent,
. awash with moments, as were sort of meant.

© Tim Grace, 15 September 2012


To the reader: To the sound of gently lapping water I wander the coastal promenade; find an outdoor table; it’s perched at the end of a short jetty. With the morning sun’s warmth on my back I open my eyes to the scenery at large. At water’s edge, a cafe has delivered the first of many all-day breakfasts. Behind me two yachts acknowledge as passing wave. Eyes shift, a waitress is delivering a blue bowl of water to a black dog. Scene closes with a father and his young son greeting the black dog with a ‘good morning’ pat-and-chat.

To the poet: Light extends a poet’s vision into the realms of colour and movement. The crisp light of dawn is by nature poetic. With fresh aspect it exposes familiar forms to new interpretation. Dawn’s crisp exposure, fleeting as it is, delivers a lasting impression. Beyond an hour or so of rising its particular beauty is diffused to a general sense of mundane utility. The day is best seized by the touch of dawn.

 

 


Water's Edge

Water’s Edge

Dog House

Dog House

Where live those demons, where do they reside?
Long-stay lodgers, cluttering cavities,
residential tenants, hard to abide,
hard to accommodate … depravities.
Where live those phobias that tease and taunt?
Reckless wranglers, robbers of niche and nest.
Thieves, gypsies and thieves, that endlessly haunt
contentment; pull upon the softest leash.
Where live those mongrels, that doggedly drain
all sense from sensibility, larking
larrikins, bedroom bandits, once again
prove themselves mad, yes… barking!
. Where lives lunacy, where does it locate?
. It lives in a kennel, barks at the gate.

© Tim Grace, 15 September 2012


To the reader: I think dog-ness needs to be recognised as a disability. My canine residents are daily afflicted by a host of phobias; translated into all manner of quirky behaviours. Between stimulus and response their processing is spontaneous and erratic; predictably, the product is most often a “dog’s breakfast”. As chaos calms, there’s a small sense of reflection but never enough to suggest that sanity will ever prevail.

To the poet: As a descriptive piece, this poem delivers a litany of pet perturbances. I love my dogs but they do have some very annoying habits that warrant occasional relegation to the metaphorical dog-house. Obviously, it was important to workshop the sonnet. I’m happy to report that both dogs agreed it was a perfect likeness of the other.


 

Dog House

Dog House