Tan y Bwlch morning

Sun promises warm,
fragile sea-pinks breeze-braving,
salt the misty air

Nant Yr Arian

Forest-dark silence,
light-filled, sky-arched ridges
quiet speak to my soul

On the fence-posts

Silent, threatening,
etched against the summer sky,
five hooded black crows

Haiku version..

Early blackberries
memory-tastes of long ago
sharp-sweet on my tongue

'Only he who sees...'

The blackberries were ripe alongside the cliffpath this morning, so, on our daily walk, the dog and I savoured the first of the season (well, I tasted some, she didn't - though I once had a dog who would eat them delicately off the lower bramble branches).

Aah, how taste brings memories flooding back- blackberrying over the years:

With the now-grown-up children, in the hot humid sun of late August, when the heavy weight of summer-holiday activities fell squarely on my shoulders..

Further back, and the memory-taste is mingled with that of polo-mints when he and I walked the coastal paths of Wales and Cornwall in our before-children days. A different dog-companion again..

Further back again and you are there, unusually as you didn't like the great outdoors. This memory is so vivid I think there must be a photo somewhere - you in your disreputable raincoat, hooking down the high brambles with your father's walking-stick, brought along for the purpose..

That same walking-stick you took to with aplomb after your fall about ten years ago, defiantly defending your treasured and surprising independence..

That same stick you stomped into the hospital with last summer, arguing that there wasn't anything wrong..

And the most recent memory - last summer's late blackberries, gathered in September for chutney, when I was mourning your loss..

That same walking-stick stands in the corner of the room now, garnered along with so many trifles from the house-clearance; smooth well-worn wood, bearing such a store of dreams. I shall not start using it, yet..

From the lookout

Above the rooftops
disconsolate seagulls wheel
rain stopped play today

Growing-up

Insouciant fledglings
feed among the scaffolding
unconcerned children

August morning

The light is silver-hazy
where the sea meets the sky,
boats appear to fly
and soaring birds to swim.

At my feet
the green and grey of sea and shore
are mingled

There are no clear-cut boundaries anymore

Tan Y Bwlch

The rhythms of the sea today
Are blue and green and grey
The painted boat crosses a line of silver
And drops its anchor -
A child's red toy
Bobbing in the bay