Making Fractals

Crisp, harsh, the morning summer sun,
leaves of our tree
making fractals of its light;
heat seeping in to awaken,
to arouse, to release, to cherish.
Wet, a smell of salt,
our hair
engaged with sand; a murmuring
as waves wash our feet,
never ceasing, subdued now.

This is where we met, went together
each Saturday at sunset; slept together, the tent buffeted
from without and, I remember,
from within.
Passion spent, we watched the sun rise, its light
casting fractals through the leaves.
A place of sanctuary; lost in the arms
of a loved one, to explore
your naked body for the first time and again and again,
to know each curve, to breathe you in, while
the leaves of our tree
made fractals of the light.

Each night
in remembrance, I walk the lonely path
from the tent to the sea.
A bitter, roaring, blustering, bullying sea.
I sleep alone, left wondering,
Recalling, in your hair the smell of the sea.
Yours was of a passionate sea.
How I combed sand grains from your hair
with a fine-toothed comb…

where are you now?
I wonder, as the tree makes fractals of the light
that I no longer see.
That, without you, I have no wish to see.
For you have travelled far beyond the stars
to leave me wondering
if your light is casting fractals
where you are.

(Poem inspired by R.F. Brissenden Letter from Garella Bay)

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