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Priestholm

POETRY

NO PASSAGE LANDWARD

David Selzer By David Selzer0 Comments1 min read1.3K views

Over time the ridge of the white pebbled beach

at Trwyn Du, Black Point, has risen –

rough tides edging smooth stones up and up.

From the landward hollow the breaking waves

are merely murmurings, and the easterly

a susurration. We climb to the top,

ever more circumspectly, with cautious knees.

 

The shimmering channel – narrow, treacherous –

between the mainland and the lighthouse,

reflects the tower’s shifting black on white.

Every half minute its warning bell tolls.

Conflicting tidal currents converge here –

fast seas made mild maelstrom by the wind.

 

Sun turns the cliffs of Puffin Island,

Priestholm, a pale, striated orange.

A trawler, with no herring gulls in tow,

passes seaward of the light. At the sea’s edge,

in her bright blue padded coat – reluctantly,

and only partly, done up against the wind –

she is scattering pebbles into the waves.

May she be safe always!

 

 

 

 

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David Selzer By David Selzer
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POETRY

THE SOLITARY ANGLER

David Selzer By David Selzer2 Comments1 min read1.9K views

The fog bell sounds every thirty seconds.
A shag bobs in the swell by the lighthouse
painted black and white with the legend
‘No Passage Landwards’ on its east and west sides.
An occasional heavy wave thumps the beach.

I climb the high bank of sea-smoothed pebbles
from the landward side and hear and feel them
chafe and slip. At the seaward foot of the mound –
a petrified wave three times my height –
an angler stands, motionless, his rod propped
on a tripod, the line taut in the tide.
And the bell sounds twice every minute.

On the island, a quarter mile away,
are cormorant, guillemot, razorbill.
On the horizon, tankers are waiting
to berth at Holyhead on the high tide.

He is watching the line, I presume,
ready for the slightest twitch to pull in
whatever it is his optimism
has prepared him for. The island has housed
a monastery, a sanctuary,
a telegraph station – now elder thrives
and puffins flourish on Puffin Island
or Priestholm or Ynys Seriol.
Every half minute, the lighthouse bell sounds.

I have my own fish to catch. This place,
whatever the weathers, inspires, inspires:
it is the end of land and the sea’s start,
under a sky always open, immense
but its compass points known beneath rocks
unchanged, a fifty year pilgrimage.

He is still watching the line when I leave
climbing the steep bank of worked pebbles.
And the bell sounds, and sounds…

 

 

 

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David Selzer By David Selzer
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