Bordeaux Bay

Bordeaux Bay
Bordeaux Bay by Guernsey-based artist Tony Taylor

Wednesday, 11 March 2015


The three most popular blog poems published during February were Hibernation, In Grace and Quarry
Here’s an opportunity to read them if you missed them first time round. 
If you'd like to see the original narratives that accompany each of these poems you'll find them on the following dates: 1st, 18th and 24th February by using the Older Posts key below.


Hibernation over, they wake
hungry. Then swiftly re-engage
in animal things: so the cycle
begins again. We understand that.

Is it fanciful to wonder
if they dream? Or is their slumber
incomprehensible, like death,
devoid of sense of anything?


The present is arcane and strange
and any recollection left
of what has happened in the past
is vague and liable to change.         
Of future plans, he is bereft,           
for nothing now is hard and fast.   

They give him multicoloured pens
and paper, as one might a child.
Familiar voices interweave.
He sees, through a distorting lens,
people who wept, people who smiled,
that, one by one, stood up to leave.

He is content. He lives in grace.
What matter if the moments blur,
if his nocturnal thoughts are grim?
He has escaped himself: his face,
a kind of absence in the mirror,
comforts and somehow pleases him. 


Pockets weighted with rocks,
she sinks like a stone, down
through engulfing blackness.
The sudden coldness shocks;
dark water spreads her dress
as she begins to drown.
Steep granite walls surround,
like hands, this black water:
their blunted fingertips,
coarse stone-scarred, cupped around
a pitchy ale. Her lips
imbibe it. Drowned daughter,
she descends through grey seams
hewn by generations 
of quarrymen, long dead.
Her ears absorb the screams
of cutting-tools that fed 
slabs to loading stations,
harsh shouts, profanities
and laughter, trapped in stone. 
In bottomless darkness,
spinning, suspended, she
is free from time’s duress,
constraints of blood and bone,
all that once assailed her. 

Years will pass, rain and sure
forgetfulness will come
like longed-for sleep. Weeds stir
her hair. She will become
timeless, unsullied, pure,
assimilated in   
water, stone, and submit 
her flesh to nature’s game
then, snakelike, shed her skin,
while those that knew her name
will misremember it. 

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