Thermocline
Words cross the page without disturbing it — bright minnows, lures, perfectly aligned.
Margins balanced, breaks clean, each syllable set in place. Nothing holds.
Not thunder but weather turning, closing in. First the pressure: a phrase that startles, one sound returning changed.
Then the music tightens, snags, coils, sways like bladderwrack.
A pull of slow salt drift, down, past the last light, into the cold press.
In response to; #W3 # 217, hosted by David at The Skeptic’s Kaddish
The featured image includes: J.M.W. Turner — Snow Storm – Steam-Boat off a Harbour’s Mouth (1842); Mark Rothko, No. 61 (Rust and Blue) 1953 ; and Winslow Homer, Early Morning After a Storm at Sea, 1900–1903
hi, Josie❣️
Just wanna let you know that this week’s W3, hosted by our beloved Benji, is live until next Monday (July 6):
https://skepticskaddish.com/2026/07/01/w3-prompt-218-weave-written-weekly/
Much love,
David
Chilling words to fend off the coming heat wave! I like it.
That thought reminds me of the poem about the city clerk perched on his office stool in a London heatwave who is transported off to go swimming with polar bears when he sees a lucky carter handling ice in the street.
Josie, I love how your poem shows that words can look perfect on the page but still not touch the heart.
Much love,
David
Beautiful. From the first sentence I was pleasantly reminded of Ezra: life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass–what a beautiful start… And the rest. I find it all fascinating. Thanks for sharing. Blessing you.
Thanks, Selma. I had to look up Ezra and so here he is:
And The Days Are Not Full Enough
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.
– Ezra Pound
I can see and feel the movement of this poem. The minnows, the bladderwrack — flitting and swaying — very much like my thoughts when I try to sit down to write them!
Everything beginning to sink and drift and go below the surface.
Thanks for the comment, Sally.
House I really like this piece – the intoxicating, slightly dangerous pull of the writing process itself. A poem can start as something controlled, only to drag you down into somewhere much deeper and darker 🙌
You never know what will happen or what you may find once you start looking beneath the surface!
Thanks for the comment Ange. I didn’t intend for this to take a rather sinister turn, but there it is.
But maybe the pull and the dark and the deep don’t have to be sinister.