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Salt Marshes of Jersey
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Hyacinth garden I walked through a nearby marsh today, a natural garden drenched in misty rain, doused with shadows of cloudy mornings light. When the rain came, fog rose from the forest and caught the tops of the pine trees, the rain fell over the marsh like the gasps of an afterglow.
No one else moved in my course, except a red-winged blackbird hopping onto his flight. He quickly overtook me, fluttering into wind bent stalks of cattails.
It smelled of musk and an earthworm's appreciation. It was a new land of mating flowers where the re-greening of reeds and tall marsh grasses converged on my insight.
Soggy bog leads a path to a place that delivered me to the red camellias, white dogwood, purple-white magnolias, tiny yellow azaleas, and wet forsythia. I love wet forsythia...
At the edge of the pine forests the aromatic particles danced around me flirtatiously, colors blended with the rainy grey in unique fashion.
My poetry is a song of life, a memory at the speed of light…
A melody that affects my senses, moments emerge and leave, both unfolded and replaced by the next sensation, like sunrise and sunset.
I have developed this arrangement over the life of my prose, a life uncertain and poignant. Nature and my view enable this milieu.
