Tanka by John
Gilliver
With intense reserve
The sea examines the shore
Indifferently.
A pebble, washed, smoothed
and turned,
Catches
the light of the sun.
The sea pounds the rocks
Remorselessly fingering
The
fragile boulders.
Scented thyme, wind-laughter
fresh,
Shakes the
sea-salt from its ears.
On the sea’s blackness
The streetlights flicker and
dance
Like rainbow’d
moonlight.
The sky above, sombre, grey,
Exhibits
nothing but void.
Thunder cracks all night.
Lightning flickers on the
wall.
Rain drums on the ground.
The earth is punished and
soaked.
At dawn a tiny drip beats.
Steadily the moon
Pours through the open
window
Where the
dreamless sleep.
On the washing-line outside
A desolate towel sighs.
One long slow graceful curving
wave bows to the shore.
In a patter of splashes
a dog
plays with the ocean.
I lie in the depths of night.
Of I know not what
I am fearfully alert.
Inert. Death is nothing real.