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Poem – Arcachon (By John Swain)

Arcachon

Ebb tide to sea wave breaks,

headland entrance, bay flow

while the mooring buoys lie

beside their weighted chains,

seas gather,

a grass island rises

for the gull and heron-spear.

A blue pinasse sits in mud,

pine trees, lighthouse, dunes

open to the south,

I close my eyes to the winds,

lips dried by sun, wine soft,

horse swims,

and still the water imponderable.

Shells split by knife, her hands

touch seawater, touch her flesh,

touch my hands,

the sea returns to the low bay

lifting the ships again

in pendulum, in meditation,

the sky lens sounds sea bells.

 


Author Bio:

John Swain
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