Low Tide by Bondbloke

Fishing boats lie stranded impotent in the mud,
Having been sitting proud, bobbing sensuously,
In the bustling, water filled harbour.
Trapped by forces of nature without chance of escape,
Until the tide returns again to restore their freedom.

Ropes and chains once unseen beneath the water
Lie now draped with slimy brown and green seaweeds,
Like so many stranded eels writhing in viscous mud.
Resting now in their ineffectiveness, their redundancy,
Their strength to be tested once more at high tide.

Fishermen mill around in groups, hands in pockets,
Waiting for the tide, discussing the weather,
Talking about past glories when fish were plentiful.
Others still are busy preparing for the next tide,
Mending nets, cleaning down boats, simply waiting.

Seagulls scavenge for any titbits they might find,
And people eating ice-creams, fish and chips etc.
Are prime targets for their terror tactics.
Despite all the warnings, DON'T FEED THE GULLS!
People feed them anyway, and deservedly get pecked.


Bondbloke, Leith, Scotland

Just Waiting by Bondbloke

Little houses by the harbour,
Watch fishing boats at the tide line,
Awaiting its return whilst also
Waiting for a southerly breeze.
Fishermen stand around and talk,
About earth shattering events,
Like whose turn it is to
Buy the next round at lunchtime.

Bondbloke, Leith, Scotland

Dawn by Bondbloke

The rosy fingers of the goddess of the dawn
Slide like the crafty hands of a cat burglar,
Over the window ledge of the horizon,
And begin to jemmy the lock of the day.

Sunrise comes as the visual music of the cosmos;
The soft light of dawn flowing passionately,
Like the lethargic caress of a gentle lover
Over the sleepy, undulating body of the sea.

The sea sucks noisily at the sandy shore,
Like an old man drinking tea from a saucer.
The seagulls plaintive cry greets the day,
Before other birds have even brushed their teeth.

The most precious time of day is dawn.
Aurora comes to the world anew each day.
Stripping off her cloak of spangled darkness
And flaunting her red and gold-flecked body.

Bondbloke , Leith, Scotland

Woodland Walk by Bondbloke

I walk along the woodland path,
The dozy mutt running on ahead,
Having his first exercise of the day.
Brown and yellow, fallen leaves
Rustle and crunch underfoot.
All is still, peaceful in dawn's light,
Except for the croaking pheasant
And the calls of other, unseen birds.
A stream burbling along clandestinely,
Heading lazily toward the sea,
Reflects the sun's early golden rays
Up through almost bare branches,
Lighting drops of early morning dew.

Bondbloke, Leith, Scotland

Morning Fog by Bondbloke

A thick cunning fog slinks in from the sea,
Lending the morning a ghostly chill, and,
An uncanny mixture of tranquillity and dread.
Terrifying in its silence and gentleness,
Like the harbinger of some impending catastrophe.

The tea-tray flat sea, a mirror no more,
The curious, creamy, smooth water covered
By a nebulous shroud of bleached opaqueness.
Blurring the outlines of all it encounters,
Deadening, distorting the disembodied sounds.

Beyond the shore we hear the putt, putt, putt,
Of a boat's engine as, tentatively, warily,
It gropes its way through nature's curtain,
Following the mournful wail of the fog-horn,
Trying to attain once more the safety of the harbour.

Bondbloke, Leith, Scotland