Home of the Steam Highwayman
This morning I’ve been enjoying re-reading and reviewing Map: Poems After William Smith’s Geological Map of 1815, edited by Michael McKimm.
I review for the London Grip, edited by my friend Mike Bartholemew-Biggs. I previously wrote about McKimm’s Fossil Sunshine and enjoyed that very much – but in the upcoming review I discuss how McKimm has shared his discovery of the geology’s rich seam of latent metaphor with other poets, and their diverse responses.
When the tide, slow retreating from the beach north of Broadstairs,
Reveals all the liminal acres of shore,
A field of nobbly pinnacles rises
Slathered with purple, green-fingered, white-raw.
The chalk will feel greasy to fingertip gripping,
The seaweed is slippy beneath treading feet,
Yet the softest of stones is defeating the ocean
Absorbing the thunder where seas swell and meet.
The cliffs, yes they tumble, they fall and they shout,
Collapse in the surf of the tide’s furthest rush,
But ten days in twelve the water drains backward
And the roar of the ocean will turn into hush.
The power of water is soon dissipated,
Rollers and breakers split into rills
And the cliffs, slowly crumbling, must face the ocean
But twice a day water retreats and then stills.
Upon the lip a flow like glass,
It seems as solid as the slate
Over which the waters mate,
Salt and sweet, where waves amass.
The waterfall persists its flow,
Its noisy rattle, chatter, rush
But the bigger water sweeps in hush
The shatters patterns with a throw.
Now synchronised in flow and draw
The waves ride in and mount the shelves
Some further, nearer, spend themselves
To salinate the pool-spread shore.
Is it a battle or a game?
These two waters meet head-on
Their distinct selves are seen, then gone.
And left, one cold and salt-sweet same.