After storm

the last breath

of the turning tide

leaves

scraps of fractured fronds

along the sand

Almost silence

We walked - the only sounds
the raven's croak, the oystercatcher's warning cry,
the wigeon's whistle
and the soft tread of our feet across the grass.

Sunrise

I watch
each morning's miracle
as the sun rises over Kintyre
and spreads its light
over sky and sea.
On days like this
I cannot find the words...

Merlin

I saw her resting on my garden fence
against a backdrop of the sea.

Too far away to take a better photograph
but close enough to see the pattern on her breast,
the barring on her tail
and when she left, the swiftness of her wings.

Tide line

waves roll in
leave a scalloped edge of bubbles
lingering,
sliding seawards
or sinking into sand.

Low tide

swaying kelp stems
catch the sun
fill the sea with stars

Wild, wet and windy

I open the door to rain,
wind-driven, stinging, cold.
I shiver -
delay my daily walk,
return to my writing.

Sheltering

In the headland's lee
a hundred oyster catchers
wait for wind to abate
and tide to fall.

Wild goats

Camouflaged between shore-side rocks

they feast on seaweed,

their musty odour

drowns the scent of the sea

lingers

long after they’ve moved on

Swans are drinking

They fly in to where fresh water meets the salt

graceful necks arching, dipping, lifting, tilting, swallowing

                                                             again and again and again.

Battling with tarmac

A year ago

they buried the track beside the shore.

An alien black line follows the curve of the coast

where once there were pebbles, daisies, dandelions,

where each winter puddle was a picture in ice. 

I give thanks for sand sedge already breaking through.

A flotilla of gulls

like white boats on a blue sea
rising and falling with the tide

Wild Geese in the Wind

a  sidewind buffets them

turns their straight-as-arrow lines

to arcs and curves

Winter heliotrope

Pink tasselled blooms
breathe fragrance on crisp, wintry air

Marram grass

dominates the dunes,

sharp tufts sprout through moss

and the withered stems of last year’s thistles.

The year's first snowdrop

hangs her modest head
and trembles in the breeze.

Rabbit holes

undercut the fragile turf

dark entrances

spill sand
scar the hillside

Winter daisies

Three baby faces
         braving the frost.

It's never all grey.

One gap in a grey, cloudy sky -
one pool of light on a grey, choppy ocean.

In the wood

Lichen covered trees like hairy old men who have forgotten to shave.

January dune-slack

frosted hollows, soft green,
pale as new-leafed Whitebeam

Feeding time?

a sparrowhawk lands on the patio
small birds scatter

Thaw

a milder day
icicles melt, drip, make music

More than icicles

On the cliff where water drips
leaves and twigs, grass and ferns are all encased in ice.

They forecast snow

Minute flakes fall to sunwarmed paving
vanish as they land

Dawn of a new day

just before the sun rises out of the sea

clouds are underlit, edges gilded, glowing.

Buzzard

on moth-mottled wings
he lifts
and drifts and swings

Grey day

Rain from the west obscures the headland
reduces the view
to grey sky, grey hills, grey rain.

morning foray

rooks fly past
black silhouettes against the rising sun

Breakfast

Hot crumpets on cold plates leave circles of condensation.
A million tiny bubbles reflect the candlelight.

A big catch

I've been inspired to follow A River of Stones - writing a brief piece every day for the month of January.
Here goes
                       red-throated diver
                       emerges trying to swallow a fish