Three Poems by Tia Ysolde (NZ) Wind up
The Beaufort Scale is the scale of the windforce low
on ebb and flow, the sail is the monarch’s wings which tenderly sing, on a flower -‐ the ‘Early Cheer’ that is here, on the coast, on a southerly, sunny honeyed day
The Beaufort Scale is the scale of the windforce mild
the child, nails a plank, on an outdoor vice twice, he hammers the flighty piece, an elongated painted wood, with coloured flecks, flying specks scattering wide
The Beaufort Scale is the scale of the windforce moderate
‘Clobber it!’ They call to a boy with a bat, and a ball on a breezy beach, he sends it sleek, on an arc in the sand whipped skeins gliding over silica slivers, in winding rivulets, salt crusts glistening
The Beaufort Scale is the scale of the windforce strong
throngs of surfers are kites skimming on waves, sinking dreadlocks drinking, the resonant rush and booming swells blustery, gusty white horses spike. The Beaufort Scale is the scale of the windforce gale
kale chips fly, across an alfresco cafe table, soaring skater passes by, a woman waiting, stopped, with her watch, to catch a match in cupped calm, on a balm of divergence, her turbulent eyes a
stormy gamut.
On archetypes and the indwelling pearl the shadows bleed and bloom, the tears are dripping gifts; the stories are the Medicine, the arteries of thoroughfare; they are silken passages of lightning, to a shelled pearl, struck open.
Butterfly and Moth one graces day, one roams by night, in Sun and Moon, see-‐sawing light. Forever-‐in-‐flux on an orbital canvas plural inversions of mirrored candour. In rippling
dis-‐union
they fly, empirical in a twin
faced sky
Each endemic to its own grand scheme each, the other’s bipolar dream.