Giles Watson's photos with the poem

A Promise of Orchids

A Promise of Orchids
A Promise of Orchids

Today, there are no other footprints
but my own, the long sand stippled
with raindrops. The ocean's slow edge
is smooth with foam, hissing faintly
as the bubbles break, and the backsurge
rushes under. From here, my way leads
over gra…
Added on August  9, 2015

Perching

Perching
Perching

My world has become a watermark
in rice-paper. Everything substantial
has melted. Last night, the spring tide
rose up over the road, washed away
all evidence, and never withdrew.

The moon had lost all influence; winds
hushed into extinction.…
Added on July 22, 2015

Whetted

Whetted
Whetted

Black-backed gull on your watching-stone
with the tide all around you and the sunlight
glancing through the foam, I love how you
half-turn to look at me without bothering
to shift your legs or raise a wing, then switch
your gaze back towards the…
Added on July 19, 2015

Henry Moore, Woman Seated in the Underground, 1941

Henry Moore, Woman Seated in the Underground, 1941
Woman Seated in the Underground, 1941

She has been knitted out of wax, hands
unnaturally small: this Norn of worry, sitting
separate from the others, turned away
from the tunnel’s vortex. Her fingers pinch
each other; I think her nails are bitten. Inst…
Added on May 28, 2015

Keith Vaughan 'Man in a Cave', 1943

Keith Vaughan 'Man in a Cave', 1943
Man in a Cave

I hollowed it out with my own hands. The sandstone
was soft enough, so I only lost my nails. I’m amazed
at myself: how heedless I was to pain. The way above
is sunken, hedged with thorns and a needling grizzle
of gorse. After the chase,…
Added on May 25, 2015

Slack Water

Slack Water
Slack Water

Before I spotted him, the egret
had already tilted his compass
half-toward me, his almost-
still reflection questionable
only at the head-end, where
it quibbled with the shadow
of a stone. That was five minutes
ago. He hasn’t budged, althou…
Added on May 14, 2015

Heading Out

Heading Out
Heading Out


And then the surge was calling, so she woke
out of that caged quiescence, her long throat
telescopic, the cool rubber of her paddles
flailing – and it was all weighed up inside us
both, this chosen moment which might be
everything: a shearwi…
Added on May 13, 2015

The Season After

The Season After
The Season After

His young-bird plumage must have moulted now,
so as they serry themselves to preen
where the old jetty spans rickety
to the tall pole and its cormorant sentinel,
their bill-gussets flesh pink, translucent,
and the crested terns all windb…
Added on April 26, 2015

Crab Skin

Crab Skin
Crab Skin

Here’s why I’m crouching, huddled over
this ripped skein of sea-grass: studying
a skin. It’s the intricacy that thrills me;
I’m picturing the eyes withdrawing
from those slim stickles, legs flicking
out, segment by segment, tiny claws
unhaspin…
Added on April  9, 2015

Shearwater's Release

Shearwater's Release
Shearwater’s Release

I know why they call you shearwater,
for over the heaving surge
you flurry’s an inch from the broiling
defying the ocean’s rage.
Shearwater, bill like razors,
shaving a fish from the sea:
one hand to leave you entangled,
another to s…
Added on April  9, 2015