hope
Sunday morning sparkled your eyes— and an entire sea glistened to life born of the selfsame sky where we were blackened— blued— lost to reason hope rises from falsity— through surface light raises lifeboats from strife, and the bleed of knivesto sing a morning electric I look for the light that follows along if I have patience to wait, she arrives— smiling, shining disarm spilling small miracles when I notice them when I am lifted by hope, I am captivated— danced from blue it sends belief when I can't see through silence— is broken by sound, the crunch underfoot— the empty shells of razor clams crunch— is the talk of freedom costless, heedless childish play— the satisfaction of scrunching shells, without heft or consequence hoping like this, my knees unworn— is a form of prayer something I forget is always there outside, alone— I pray like this write words without mask, or ask whose only desire is to see themselves turning me into something else
A small addition today, no explanation or much extra context needed.
This was my Sunday morning coastal walk in Bull Island, Clontarf in Dublin. I was accidentally there and blessed with early morning light that followed me along as I walked. As it does when it peeps through the trees walking in the park, keeping me company. My shadow always joined the other side.
It feels like encouragement. It feels like hope. A message to keep believing when life gets tricky and things are hidden or less clear.
My experience of being outdoors is so anchoring and healing. How we are breathed alive by it, healed from its touch and breath.
For whatever reason this reads as though I can hear the empty quiet of the seaside in the morning
"My experience of being outdoors is so anchoring and healing. How we are breathed alive by it, healed from its touch and breath." That says it all, yet your poem says much more. Beautiful!