Of Firths and Fathers

In weathers un-listened geography I await the late years low ambient yellow that will dissolve the drenched slumber of landscape grey and spindrift froth. Names of other elemental places slip beneath the door, they are given character of sea scape gust, and mercator projection softened in the description "slight" They veer now, howling their last close to battered breath tide, striking afresh the holm of landfall where waterline inhales the outrun of each encroaching wave. The night splits and torch lit dawn illuminates muscular wrestled trees, bent as hungover drunks. And you and I sing to their jetsome, mindless as children