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Don Rodgers is a poet from Neath. His books are published by Seren. Aphrodite at St. David's Head The dark, scalloped edges of the day hold in place a clear blue sea, in which lines of light vibrate like harp strings, and bulbous comb jellies, beating tiny, iridescent oars in series, swim. A family of choughs feed and converse on the cropped turf of Carn Llidi. A peregrine patrols the air space over a white farmhouse. While the bitches suck rage through their teeth in Ramsey Sound. Orange inflatables charge the cliffs, then swerve, in a scythe of foam, to scare the life out of the life-jackets. In Whitesands Bay the wet-suits ply their trend with the surf, observed by the little boats of puzzled gulls. Can't you still see how an eel flashily dislocates in the depths of a blue-green eye; while a jellyfish opens its throbbing fist into a flower? I am waiting now for the frame to break. For then the sea, unloosed, will flow; flow in. Bringing you to me, gently, on a wave. Evening, Swansea Bay Under the blood light to the west The suns violence behind Oystermouth, The quiet roar of the seas mindfulness Calm opalescence: mutual modulation Of water and light: sea-sky; sky-sea Birds are writing black, inscrutable, Dissolving lines over ideographs of ships Random, purposeful, pin-point lights The sky in the east regaining a lost blue Nothing left to do this evening, except Take heart; drink deep |