West Coast Fishing                      Sounds Silenced

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West Coast Fishing by Mel Stacey 2008
 

We have our own Sunset Boulevard here.

Where west coast path snakes by a field for birds.

Look out across the blue, and catch a flash of green,

As they come; laden with gifts from the deep.

A Bass, a Pollock, Mackerel, Wrasse and Crab.

A feast to feed twelve hungry mouths at home.

Along the cliffs, among the crags, birds nest.

They rear three young, safe from voracious gulls.

Their piping cry and darting dance alerts us to their need.

No hook, no line, no rod, no reel.

A sharp persistent beak creates a hole

From which to pluck the flesh; luscious, pearly, soft.

The banquet nobly caught.

Across the deep, time’s measured turn calls back.

Vast yearning hauling. us in each year

Pearl-bordered by the waves, the rope-wrought heart still there.

A glance, a touch, a sigh, a dream.

No bait.  The island’s natural power

Pulls in the catch of friendship:

Companions joyfully found.

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22^nd May 2010 - stolen from Elaine and Jim Lennon's Blog where it first appeared.

On the silencing of the Bardsey Fog Horn 19^th May 2010 - by Mel Stacey
 

Sound Silenced

A notice came through in April

And I received it two days late, too late.

The sound once intermittent, then persistent

Had been silenced.

No reason given, no consultation, or explanation.

Merely stark information.

No further notice will be given.

By Order

That evening, when news reached me,

I had strained my eyes

Through milky sea-merged Ceredigion skies

For a one-fifth flicker of the beam.

And in searching for the light

No sound came;

And now to mourn

Not being there for its passing.

On south end, west side, beyond the stack and horn

We dodged the thistles and thrust

The spectral birds out into evening’s veil.

As fog drenched down a cabin-fever day,

What option, but time trial races,

Around the tower and cottage compound

To beat the horn?

Has what we say and how we say it

No meaning anymore?

Must spoken word and soft inflexion give way?

Must we alone rely on looking, seeing, but not hearing?

You cannot tell by sight alone

So close your eyes and listen, listen, listen.

To

Chiffchaff and Blackbird’s announcing song

And solitary Redshank pipe.

As east wind brings the rumbling trundles

From Great Western trains

Holiday children clamour for steam and whistle cries.

And under night’s thick felted blanket mist

Tucked in around the cliffs

Through island sleeping

The foghorn cores its note and rhythm

Deep into my soul.

Mel Stacey