How Small We Are In This Weather

Southwesterly, the wind,
the accumulated magnitude, the breath of the tempest;
presses against the body of the rippled ocean,
drives it in mad waves onto rocks,
spume flung atop the cliff where we hover,
balanced with outstretched arms, with tugged coat sleeves,
the wind with such strength:
we can calculate how to move,
how to fly in this unrelented howl:
if only we had wings.
No bigger than gulls:
flecks on rockscape.


  1. Why soup Lisa? Wish bone soup??

  2. Lily, this is wonderful. Your poem and picture of wind-driven ocean dashing so high --I feel the hilarity of gravitational laughter, the language of stars. It seems I'm not the only one who laughs at crashing waves.

  3. Elizabeth :-) Check out the 'What Is Wishbone Soup' page. All explained! xx
    Geo- we were walking at a place called Kynance Cove, very wild, very inspirational- you would have fitted in nicely there, laughing at the crash of the waves! Sometimes it just feels so liberating to be a tiny piece of the wonderful vast universe :-)

  4. Amazing. And with wind churned waves crashing upon the shore, I drift away and let the wind carry me where it may.

    Thank you, Lily. Your writing dances upon the screen.


  5. 'I feel the hilarity of gravitational laughter, the language of stars.'

    I love reading Geo's words in response to your own, L. Symphonic.

    You seem to be unfurling further -- if at all possible!

  6. Let others be made of star stuff...I vastly prefer the excitement of being a 'wave' particle!

  7. I love all of the commentaries- gives me a buzz like the beach, people, it truly does! Thank you so much for making 2012 a brilliant journey :-) Looking forward to sharing more through 2013 xx


Post a Comment

Thank you for reading my words- my chance to read yours here:

Popular posts from this blog

Unusual Koalas

The Week Of Clarke And Covid

Worth Every Ache