Nairn Beach

This poem is the first that was written on the first Scottish leg of my voyage around the Shipping Forecast areas. An empty beach is probably the place I feel most comfortable. I’m sure there’s something deeply psychological about that, but it’s not something I want to explore too deeply.

Saltwater seethes from the Black Isle to tease 

an endless beach; sea touching sky 

with a palette of blue green and haze grey. 

Rothko shimmers quickening the landscape

painting waves in roiling torment. 

Tide low, the white caps swell and claw, 

hand over hand; ceaseless; desperate 

to free themselves from the deeps 

and reach the receding dry land. Sand - 

uncaring – shifts like hard mist skittering, 

dancing, leaving ripple tracks to be planed 

smooth by a philistine moon on the next 

flood. The dunes wait for the gambolling 

winds to slow shudder them from the shore, 

but are held back from pasture by an apology 

of buckthorn, between high-tide and rye.

The threat of spring fills the harbour 

with skiffs, dinghies and yachts waiting 

to shred the peart colour fields and fill 

the silent beach where Chaplin played…

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