Gleanings

Gleanings

Walking in the heathland by the ocean,
I crouched to photograph a flower,
my heart all forgetfulness, and left
my notebook at its roots, wandering on,

then realised its absence with a shock
somewhere close to the end of my walk,
rushed back down the strand
and stumbled on a clump of wood,

pockmarked by shipworms, its rivets
corroded, concreted, jarrah blackened
by long immersion, and knew it
in an instant for a fragment

of that sand-flensed whaleboat carcass
half-submerged in beach, clenched it
to my chest and hurried on.
And almost where I started, there it was:

this marble-papered, brass-clasped
book I write in now. I don’t know
which caused the greater leap
within me, but I drove home

exultant with these two heart-sized
handfuls on the seat beside me:
careless, new-found gleanings
which once were growing trees.

Poem by Giles Watson, 2015.