Seabreeze Artwork and Poetry

Thalassic

Ink dripping, the curved page - a wave,

To make the pigment spray trickle.

Rivulets and padded foam,

an ineffable mess of opened skies and spitting streams,

inspissating with saddened, dulled and foggy eyes,

the rain too makes ripples maddened, torrents ferocious,

with white rage floating, gurgling, relentless surges.

Shores battered, spray smothered, swash wavering.

Subdued are the sounds of the gull;

the cormorant – its iridescent navy pennon unfurled - can still be heard but it’s shrill,

muffled.

Slitting air and piecing films of troubled cerulean: translated skies

toss until the flecks and hollowed bones make silver masses flit and jerk. We hear the skin’s puncture.

A heavy whir of confused air, racing, gasping, spluttering to reach their bliss: wind chimes

popping.

They are the undistorted stars of the deep: the regurgitated air;

unlocked as soft pads - foreign - tread the bruised stones with inaudible gasps. Benthos – scoured.

Red seeps from the yellowed beaks pilfering the coruscating vessels, lost to the Khaki, lost to the azure.

Combers caught in the billow.

Limitless. Bleak. The somehow still,

opposing life of seascape, landscape, skyscape, are all coalesced - we name them.

Pelagic.

No pall covers the monotonous brine, the nets imitate the sorrow,

Scoring the sea’s scab and dissevering the mute flesh.

Enmeshed are those of low pitch moans and whistles too - screeches replace the maps –

desolate and suspended by tears.

Numbers surge like tides: ebb and flow, as fickle as currents.

For a silent scape of brine and slants of light, we’ve tried

to forge with lapis, cobalt and azurite,

the monotonous vastness remains untouched.

For a silent scape we wonder why we say that sound can drown.

It can’t. But static flight and the murky bright swallows air as our life, guttering,

makes red blood the blue that we can’t grasp. Starved of breath: devoid of life:

living.

And then we join the void.

Stifled, sunken.

Bliss swells.

Daisy Campbell