nature

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walking alone

walking alone
on the empty beach
through driftwood
piled up on the sand
sea-worn skeletons
of storm-torn trees

and the footprints of past visitors
crossing and re-crossing
disordered, cryptic pathways
indecipherable
and leading nowhere

it could be easy to start
worrying about purpose and meaning
to become lost in memories
and regrets

but I revel in places like this
the emptiness gives me space to breathe
I can expand into it
I feel lighter, pressure lifts

there is a change in perspective
as the natural world
goes about its business
and I am irrelevant
my worries are nothing

there is a calm excitement
anticipation
as if at any moment the whole world
could shift and become something new

I feel the past
the timeline of history
in every scrap of wood and sand
and dog-print and shell
and I sink into it
and becoming absorbed by it all is affirming and healing

a bird flies right past me
shoulder-height
I look up
sea birds fill the beach and sky

I watch one
repeatedly flying up
then down again
to the low tide line

I realise it is dropping
a shellfish
over and over
persisting until it breaks open
and it can feed on the sweet flesh

that’s life really

we keep going
until the work of living
reveals its secrets and rewards

and on days like this
in places like this
I have no doubt
my footprints join the rest
my pathway just as hidden
my dreams fly with the birds
my intentions just as clear

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

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attention brings connection : part III

I was leaving
and just as I drew away
three girls dressed in black walked past
and you approached them
in the same way
you came to me
head forward
purposeful

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they take your photo
discussing how to make you turn
so they can get a better angle

somewhere, sometime
you learnt to approach people
and now you still do it
even when we have nothing
to give you
though perhaps we do
is it too much to think –
is it our attention you seek?

I wonder if your curiosity
will be respected

I worry for you now
you have entered my mind
I carry knowledge of you
you inhabit me

you gave me your attention

I am not disappointed

I am not alone

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

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attention brings connection : part II

coming back
from walking alone
on the empty beach

 
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I see you you there on the bank
settled, quiet, resting
and beside you
stands one of your own, watching
there is difference
in its black head and neck
and soft grey brown body
I am happy for you
that you rest in company

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and then you see me
you walk toward me
quickly, confidently
no fear, perhaps only expectation
that I might be like other people
with a pocketful of crumbs
do I disappoint you?

I have nothing
but my observations to give you
your blue-grey eye looks into mine

I see your rounded, white-feathered body
your sturdy legs
your wide-webbed feet
your solid beak
and orange like the sunset – legs and feet and beak
and the orange ring around your eyes

I’m that close

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I watch as you nuzzle
between your feathers
shaking your head, releasing fluff

you stay long enough
for me to see all this
to start feeling like you want me
to know you

and then
your companion moves nearby
looks at me sideways – as most birds do
a glint of suspicion in those dark eyes

I move away
I give you space

I do not feel alone

I am not disappointed

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attention brings connection : part I

from a distance
one white swan swims among the black

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but as it draws nearer
I begin to notice
the thicker neck
the shorter beak
the up-tilted tail
head up while others feed

swimming from one group
to another
do I imagine its confusion
its anxiety
as it searches for its own kin?

strong feet drive it forward through the water
kicking one, two, glide
one, two, glide

it is not turned away
nor accepted
but space is made
tolerated with calm disinterest
as it passes by

no choice but to continue searching

alone

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© Claire Griffin 2016

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goldfish

the vibrant golden fishes
swim near like
living persimmon
marigold petals flutter
water lily friends
circling the pond
shifting in and out of view
glimpses of the sun
between the reflected stalks
your world is a liquid mirror
solid and fluid
layers of light

one bright eye surfaces
you see me and dive away
you sense me and come closer
mouth tickles on skin
we connect for a moment
then you are gone

back to your green world
where the shadows paint your sky

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

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liquid love

throughout this long summer
the green world has held on
roots delving deeper
into the dry land

today it rained
slow, steady, gentle rain
falling quietly
caressing leaves
as it passed by
to the expectant earth

now in the after-rain
droplets rest on dry leaf-skin
balancing, waiting
until pores open
surface tension releases
they pool in hollows
to be absorbed

some slide to leaf-points
to hang like so many diamonds
re-engaging the botanical and elemental
liquid love in the silence

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

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tui

In relation to the previous poem “black diving”:

For anyone who does not know – and there may be many of you outside New Zealand – a tui is a bird about the size of a pigeon. On the day of this poem, from a short distance, the tui I saw stood out black against the mist.

But their beautiful dark glossy plumage, shines in the right light with the colours of a paua shell, greens, blues, and purple. White tufts at the throat, and white wisps around the neck.

They live in the bush reserve near my house, swooping and diving among the trees. They call invisibly among the branches, warbling and squawking and trilling.

Some have learnt to imitate sounds they hear in their environment, and can make calls like phones ringing, or kettles whistling, and occasionally even people.

IMG_0980 copy© Claire Griffin 2016

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black diving

hills disappear
mist swifts down
past houses
a moving whitewash
flattening colour
wind made visible
thickening, deepening
cloud come low to ground
all is white – the hill is memory now
near my window – trees still present – green intense against the white
tui settles on tree fern branch – holds on determined in the wind
head turns
attention shifts
beak leads
wings follow
black
diving
into
fog

(not a cento – all me – © Claire Griffin 2016)