Kit Kelen #1292 - porthole piece

1292

porthole piece

a bare coast jog along

stone the colour of

grey steel, mud at times

horizon of islands slip by

lean out to

wish not to miss

so glue the eye

and slosh

then a port in the hole

all decked in passengers and crew

that’s time to time

through narrow straits

past sandy bars

a porthole moves around too

never knows which side of the ship

I think it’s Felix’s magic hole

from the bag of tricks

portable porthole always to otherworlds

somehow still just runs by

everything moment to moment and gone

time away from the glass is lost

sift through

and we are the little dark roundness

passed out of port

someone hoses us there

rock dots like a planet speck

blue dust

say sea

and one white sail

that’s for horizon

where the sun once lit a way

think of it lamp

and the morning comes in

or midnight sun might be

a porthole comes with its own storms

barometer in the round as of

waves!

we touch dip

rust with

salt ourselves

this little run

a most remarkable lighthouse mid-sea

is there a fever in here?

and sometimes stay below decks

sink

one whittled to a town’s shape

here we are in a bottle of wash

all timbers to the tempest

imagine an arm out

just on Plimsoll

and lower the boats － we’ll leap

love the little tugs of a port

lost as clouds to me

salute to always a slope to the sea

edge from which topple from

where we worldlings fall  

once farms ran up these hillsides

now trees come down to meet

a tractor roof and walls

fields bailed whiter than this mist

think of a face in a porthole

a porthole fills with clouds

so we float

goes anywhere that there’s to go

eyes of the ship-cum-creature

deeper than the deep blue green

grey

gone azure too

a certain amount of hoving and heaving to

ropes and my she was yare

so much of us almost the sea

old salts

and sunshine strikes

at the snifter hour

in everywhere the moving view

tyre decked, hills high with houses and gone

islets, buoys, stand up to see

stone down to the water

then grey

upon grey

on tiptoes

paraphernalia

of an ocean open

a little rowboat

leaves the day

still with its wish for fish

sometimes swanning ourselves unseen

I want the porthole opening

and Marilyn leaning out to deck

stuck half way so I can help

standing under a long blanket coat

with only my small delicate hand out

growl for my passing kindness

‘stop that’

hover on swift wings then

so that my sherry would come