Thursday 17th August 2023 03.00
No moon; a barleyharvest sky gauzily starred.
Something has unslept me, just right for the night tide:
So, first time this year, down to the smallhours shore.
Two middling ships ride the bay with quiet lights;
One, much larger, must be overglaring from here to Saint Davids
With its ugly orange.
Unusually, as my walking lowers the cliff’s profile across this uncut corn,
Comes the electronic mast-shine of a yacht sleeping in our cove:
It paths at me coldsilver reflection
Far brighter than any amber-flamed oil lamp of tradition.
Torchlight finger restricted to preserve night vision,
Across curseworthy rocks greased by the dark’s breath…
Such contrast, these unmarked sands, from twelve hours ago
When young ones sea-playing echoed the frowning cliffs.
At the same boulder bench whence I sun-snorkelled that last low tide,
I strip and then hurry: never dawdle when you night swim!
Drowsy wavelets are only bright where they mirror ship lights;
At waist depth comes the other illumination I’d so hoped for –
Phosphorescence.
First sparsely, soon so profuse it blooms,
It billows around my legs…
To swim, sparkled about arms and shoulders;
To dive, for magical dazzledom!
I sand-run circles to dry under that subtle heaven,
Then climb the homeward cliff already wording these lines.
Tramp through the mothed dew towards a mug of World Service murmured tea;
All the while, the drumroll of one mighty engine –
A ship wide awake as me leaving southwards for more fossil fuels,
Reverberating all this corner of our county.
© Christopher Jessop 2023
