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WARRICK WYNNE

Waking in the Blue

Each morning we are surprised anew
at space, the jolt of light, the folds
and folds of green, like a child’s drawing,
slipping into the sound,
or rich layered, soft asĀ fuzzyfelt
shaking our heads again at the sky, brimming
into the tiny bays, and silenced by it.

And at night, under the wheeling geometry
of the stars, emerald clarity
turned silver and black, spread fingers
of light like a feather or a fern
slipping wider, across the dark hulks
of hills that have risen from the sea,
or sunk there, implacable.

And ships, slipping past late
like drifting constellations
disappear behind the dark snout of land,
the far sound of engines, and much later,
the rinse of waves against the shale beach

Voices and light carry to us in the wind,
or without, across calm light-streaked blackness,
imagined hills and secret bays,
and we wake again, step outside,
entangled in this new web of light and sea
and weightless in it.