Drowned World

By Vita Forest

In our own worlds

Looking at the hidden worlds in the water 

In the pools left by the sea.

Balancing, bending, picking, choosing, rubbing rocks through finger tips

Standing in a field of shells

Speckling sand

Shards of glass rubbed smooth by the sea

The helmet of a crab 

The tail of a lobster

Beads of seaweed 

Chunks of golden sponge

Hefted lightly in my hand.

Pockets percussive with clattering collections

Watching monumental molluscs move

Millimetre by millimetre

Twisting paths over black boulders 

Water winking in the indents of rocks

Reflecting the sky, the clouds, the light, the face peering down to the flash of opalescence deep down amongst the dark 


A row of molluscs huddled in a crevice

Warrigal greens sprawling over black stones 

Balls of raindrops rolling on the leaves of nasturtiums 

Looking back at the rearing hill with its indents of cow hoofs and the chatter of hidden birds


Through eyes, through camera lenses, through words shouted into the wind and the muttered impressions in my mind

Saving them, holding them til I reach pen and paper, like a handful of sea-smooth stones.

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Lex and Ruby

By Vita Forest

 

Springing from the sandstone

Slicing into the water

Fingers first

Feet last

The water cold and clear and shocking.

He pushes it behind him in great armfuls

Hears the pop and fizz of fish chanting in the shadows

The quiet burble of water filling his ears.

 

He erupts from the water

And she watches from the window

Sipping tea, spying.

Enjoying the water streaming off his shoulders

The flick of his head sending the hair off his face

The spout of water he spits from his mouth

Returning it to the harbour.

 

She watches as he strokes off towards the zoo

The spirals of steam stroking her face

Like his hands did

Not long ago.

 

He swims

His eyes at the level of the water

Now above, now below

Rising and dipping

In, out

Air, water

Alternating clarity with blur.

 

Then he sees it

Spinning across the surface

A bobbing brown bulb

A traveller

That fits in the palm of his hand.

 

He sweeps it before him

Bats it, flings it

A ball, a toy, a message in a bottle

A promise.

 

Back on land

Scrambling over mossy rocks in bare feet

Cradling the bulb

Slick and shiny in his fingers

Until under a fall of scarlet crescents

he sees the dark soil.

 

Searching for a stick and

Digs, scrapes, turns up the earth

Pushes in the bulb

Finding it a home.

 

Not knowing what he has sown

A plant, a garden, a love, a tribe, a story

All there

beneath the warm earth.

Neptune’s son

By Vita Forest


 

Max

Shrieking though the crashing surf

Slings strands of seaweed

Festoons his shoulders

Drapes his head

with Rapunzel’s hair gone green or

A khaki feather boa or

Rusty rapper’s chains

Strung with salt-filled beads.

 

Max

Rolling and leaping over the breakers

Flinging a length of kelp

Around and

around

Over his head

Like the blades

Of the curious open-topped helicopter we watch

Tracing the coastline overhead.

 

Max

Amid the islands of kelp floating

In and out on the waves

Throwing himself backwards over the

Foaming breakers

Like a

Happy seal

Falling back against the force of the water

Grinning fit to burst.

Southerly Buster

By Vita Forest

 

In the pool at dusk

shafts of sun break diagonal

through glitter-edged clouds hunkering in from the west.

I float in the pool and note how

Max swims like he talks

thrashing and splashing

dives designed to disturb the peace

with the biggest amount of bluster.

Lucy examines blue-shelled snails

strolling on slick black rock at water’s edge

peels one off and peers at its secret inside suction system

puts it back and it trundles on.

We burrow our fingers in the soft swaying strands of moss

green and warm from the sun

Alive.

 

The clouds rear over the hills and rain falls hard.

You almost can’t believe the change

The downpour

The ‘steady drum of rain’

Bucketing, pouring, pelting, crashing, smashing,

as I sit safe on the balcony

cocooned in my cage

a cage barred with falling water.

 

Then it’s over.

As quick as it began.

The world smells fresh and green

and I watch a man climb out of his car and

perform a magic trick

whipping off his boardies

in public

under a tucked-in towel

slinging them in the boot and

driving away.

And I wonder

could I manage that manoeuvre?

 

The blue is peering down through the grey again

at the black dog racing along the beach

kicking up clods of yellow sand as it goes.