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This ranging, wrangling, tangled burst
from brick dust, kerb and window ledge
in mortal chill so numbly nursed,
this ranging, wrangling, tangled burst
of shoots and petals unrehearsed
fulfills the courtyard with its pledge –
a ranging, wrangling, tangled burst
from brick dust, kerb and window ledge.

Where sea meets land it seems the waves
are growing heavy, thicker, darker.
Each string of binding pearls engraves,
where sea meets land, the restless waves
with icy touch; stills what it craves
 the fluid rock now moving harder.
Where sea meets land it seems the waves
are growing heavy, thicker, darker.

© Frances Bathgate, January 2009