The rock yellowsI really should find an archive for all my old rec.arts.poems postings...
in the spring sun,
as I look down
at the sparkling sea
and feel the wind
in my hair.
I turn to Judith
and smile
(I've made it this far).
She grins back,
and returns to work,
bringing in the rope
and encouraging
as Cathy climbs.
Like Dukes of York
we sit halfway up
(not halfway down,
as the rising tide
has swallowed our beach).
The sea is almost
at the first pitch,
and David might
just get wet
(the starfish in the cave
is now hunting limpets,
that graze over
their fossilised ancestors).
Cathy joins us on our ledge,
as David watches for the rope.
"Below."
"Are you on?"
"Aye, on"
"Climb when ready."
"Climbing now!"
He'll be here soon,
(David's good,
and the tide is
an incentive.).
There's a supertanker
on the horizon,
heading down-channel
empty (she's high in the water).
Off to Araby ports
for aromatic crudes
(the new king's ransom).
Two jets scream past,
they've been let out
for exercise.
And beside me
a white flower blooms.
I hear a curlew call,
I suppose it'll rain then.
