Sonnet One

 

| a portion of water |greyed liverwort  |  as we wade in wash sound  | a sugary liquid crushed grain | some yield memory|  nuance  |  you rise from the pristine  blue | oose pores Godlike from the deep to form ashes|  cinders fall from the red Atlantic | sullen |oh | pink then gold | black then aqua |towards the darkness signals begin |flesh on   flesh | contentment gathers under wing | gulls   scream and  die    |        

 

 

Sonnet Two

 

|towards the sun | pledging juice the last berries fall |  promising       re-birth if nothing else  - or wonder  | colour on colour         becomes abstract  | a blaze   right  contrast   to   the light|    shall   we go   deep    again as      Lazarus or    rise      again resurrected        under leafs and branches |  or  rejoice   in    this  broken       lime  ray and   font |  wondering  at  nothing   at    all       

 

 

Sonnet 3

 

|  Our time is seldom      devoted |  occupied  in honey combs and flower heads  |  we may   measure   and    spoon  out   artificial       lakes and dried   functioning  tanks |  you may run  forth looking for results under  mounds and roots|   Great  endeavours  crack or   bid to become immortal | a branched extension of nerve cell and neurons  |  but  what of that blue  up  there clear       endless

 

 

O

Sonnet 4

 

| a stain of   avocado  and gold   criss-cross the land  |  they  find  these  fields  Google Earthed  in  glossy magazines| as  we reach another brow we gain breath   take  in     another  reminiscence      another longing |  with  a  turn  you  disappear into the distance| you seem  to glide  over boulders   and trees| now all this is manifestation |  were you just a spectre of      mystification?|  or just    a      phantom      to   me? |

 

Sonnet 5

 

| at river  level  things are different   |   crouch down and listen  |  do I  assume  new aspects   of  beginning - humble myself   to   supremacy  | there is   always  capacity to   be found - always imaginings  |   eel  like I     slide into the estuary|     become part of   it |  I lie on my       back and       float  |   on   either side  the river lie  |  I bob     up and down        in the wonderful   mass of          liquid| slate-grey|  frozen |    febrile|        |

 

James McLaughlin 2012