Bones in the Rocks
POETRY: Family. Ferries. Fatherhood.
I live on an island,
a good one, a green one,
I’ve lived there so long
that it’s my land, this island
from shoreline to hilltop
from village to docks
I can unwind the years,
I can turn back the clocks,
hear the crackle of Cretaceous bones in the rocks.
So join me, step back,
let our minds intertwine.
Come stand on this beach,
on this island where brine
washes over our toes,
sucks us back, back in time
to the long-ago, where
with a spyglass in hand,
we can see these three dots
make their way to the sand.
Put your eye here, and watch
through the telescope lens.
See the dots coalesce,
become people, descend –
it’s a child
and a child
and a child on the spine
of a chalk-speckled path,
zig-zag down to the sea,
these three daughters of mine
their six footprints in clay
thirty fingers at play
pink-faced, windswept and free.
Refocus your view,
we have scrolled through the years,
and the island’s sweet nature’s
no friend of careers.
There’s a pull on their rope,
on their intellect, hope
and we know that they’ll go,
happy, footloose, remote.
They will follow their dreams,
wave farewell from the boat.
Zoom it out, zoom out,
look up at the sky!
Zoom out, we’ll be fine,
my three daughters and I.
Keep your eye on the stars,
keep your feet in the sea,
for the boat that sails out
some day sails back to me.
On this island,
I know when the ferries arrive.
I’ll hear when the hull bumps the jetty,
I’ll drive.
And I’ll meet them, we’ll hug
where the water’s edge starts,
one by one, all together,
a meeting of hearts.
THIS ONE’S FOR THREE of my children. If I was being biblical, I’d say “my first-born”, but we can agree that’s a bit much. Nowadays, all my children visit, they depart. I don’t know whether living off-shore means that any parting is more categorical, but with the stretch of water, the boat timetables and the feeling that they’re in another place, it feels that way. I cannot easily “pop and see them”, so like many people who live round here, when their family returns, the phrase “don’t worry, I’ll pick you up from the ferry” combines delight, duty and love. An effort has been made, and they are home again. Publishing this poem also clarifies the reason I post on Substack: I’m not especially bothered about subscriber-counts (although it’s always gratifying), but it’s about the permanence and – to get a little grand here – the legacy. This is a place where I can leave part of myself, timelessly and semi-publicly (Hi, Reader No.8!). Nothing in my work-a-day life will leave any imprint, but there’s hope that this will. Of course if you’re a cynic like me, you’ll be picturing a future hedge-fund buying Substack and churning everything into digital landfill. But at least we tried, yes?
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Photograph by me. Plus some watercolour treatment; I can’t paint.
Your missus sent me here. This is lovely!
Really, really nice! The rhythm in this is great.