Words swim from hidden places
dimple the surface unexpectedly
each tail flick flash a landscape –
a limestone scarp
a tumbling froth of spray:
a sea fret’s clammy fingers curled up staithes.
Rain teems or there’s a mizzle –
beck, tarn, spout, foss or force –
a lexicon of drenching.
Go north, for lochs and burns to dook or guddle in,
peat bogs ooze and suck each step
in black and copper pools.
You’re drookit and the smirr
stipples the windscreen.
‘It’s fairly dinnin’ doon,’ the wifies say.
The haar rolls in, as August turns to March,
insidious wetness clinging to your hair.
Here, by shingle shore and sandy heath,
Dry, I am lost for words.
After decades teaching in the north of England and Scotland, Lynda Turbet now observes the world from rural Norfolk, and tries to make sense of it all through writing.