it was not a poem
I meant to write
on the day we went
to walk
to the old ice house
at Delnies
chasing the arc
of midwinter sun
on that old track
to Whiteness
just gone noon
& barely light
the ground
corpse-stiff
trampled
by Yuletide visitor
happy holidaymakers
Covid refugees
huddled and swaddled
against the frost
playing it safe
we take to the beach
tack into the chill breeze
past rocks
crusted with
sea ice
we cannot decide
if the tide
is coming in
or going out
we should know
but we don’t
at the spot
where the whale
washed up
& last summer
a dead dolphin
lay rotting
on the breakwater
the freedom
of that season
a lifetime ago
not like this
strange end
to a strange year
of illness
paranoia
& estrangement
I ask about
your Christmas
and you ask
about mine
my boys
& my wife
your son
in Dubai
a thousand miles
from this here
we talk
of the contract
between art
& commerce
how each conspire
against
that which makes us
who we are
[o]
we reach
the ice house
and bothy
squat cottage
and barrel vault
way stations
on the old
Golf Links
a reminder
of a time
when everyone
who lived here
was tied
to land or sea
I reach
into
my pocket
& offer you
a gift:
Quality Streets
my kids
call them
Infinity Stones
you take one
put it on
your tongue
and it is gone
forever
we stand there
listening
the stones
on the shore
the sea sucking
at the sand
the frost
in the trees
the breath
in our lungs
[o]
there is something
i want to say here
about mothers
and motherhood
i always seem to be
fishing for
something
that isn’t truly there
[o]
we’re making our way back
in the creeping murk
when as if by magic
the moon appears
over the creamy firth
levitating
like a thought
or a moth
trapped in a jar
we walk
towards her
stepping from
one year
into the next
clouds fussing
the pinked air
words catch
in my. throat
as our mouths
blow out
cast nets
of misting breath
in wonderment
ooooooooo