Nacht and Nebel
for Lilly Brett
Under a full moon on a distant
Tideless shore I hear men shouting Shurin
Tonight at the quietude of this beach, like an old hawk's
nest in the fork of a dead tree all of time waits here.
My feet suckered, plugged in wet sand,
warm and cool throbbing water frothing about.
Sea lice putt about in a bucket of stale surf water
snorkelling the meniscus.
My reflexes puppet-wired to capture each transaction
of coded movement along the monofilament line.
Cauldroned on this witch less beach under a silicon crusted
scorched black sky with old darkness benched and wired,
the foul, fierce Macbethed weather gone my thoughts, my
senses aged and eyeless, my head helmeted by strychnine memories.
Moonshine decanted through clods of laundried clouds illuminates my middle
finger green inked vertically with Aussie as it triggers the wet breeze twinging line.
That breeze canoes in towing a thin veil of fog.
The sound of motioned water being vacuumed out, the popping and
bubbling, the feathering taps and bounces like dry drum skin beats,
the leaving surge pimpling the sand tanned with foamed fossil resins,
those drum beat echoes trying to dream and ink into my head.
Stars humming their glow like old patrons in the darkened
reading room of the central Braille Library in Leipzig Germany.
Out past the line's trapped end the waves and their following hollows
resemble spot-lit watered turquoise ditches of flattened grass.
Like graduates across a stage rehearsed the waves carriage in,
slow, precise and repentant for what they have seen.
With watered down tact and less than abundant logic a nightbird folklores the
surface, thinking ancient fish it wood turns itself for another low angled fly over.
Like long forgotten airport deliveries to a hobbled foreign country other stray
birds bus about ignorant of time schedules silently moving, low, slow and heavy.
I prune and cage my imagination, tighten and stiffen my concentration
like a coastal towns flood barriers ready, the coal vein of my heart
a solid yipping metronome beat like a hunting, craving pulse.
Crabs dance the wheat-coloured floor - the surface scratched and marked
with their oiled muddied tracings, whip marks across the sand.
A spittle of mizzled rain begins knitting the sky dissolving the fog and
pestering the water's surface into a massaged area of settling suck and throb.
In the bucket one lone louse tots around in bumping bobbing circles.
Away off in the nowhere distance a siren pock-marks night, the ear worming
of the sound like silver spurs heeled into the tough dark hide of existence.
Moving, towards my feet like a hovering stingray buffeting, then suddenly settling
a wax papered diamond shaped black, white green and red kite heavily watered, its
spirit just dead the long flat tail satined white like a tapeworm with the blackened
Never forgotten, forever missing.
Footnote: Night fishing at Haifa, Israel.Nacht und Nebel (Night and Fog) is the title of a decree issued in 1941. It was Hitler's euphemism for the way in which people suspected of crimes against occupying froces would be dealt with. They would be spirited away into the night and the fog.