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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


At high tide it’s a mystery.
Like all things barely there,
strange shadows, rustles
that speak in voices,
waves surfacing far from shore.
No island.
No wake,
but presence.
Later at low tide
a sandbar,
bare as the back
of a whale.

A place to stand on,
swimmer take care,
a place to rest
and say no further out,
go back to shore.
But rest a moment
like things that need a pause
to come together,
little country without a name,
barely geography,
a place to puzzle on from afar
where a man can walk on water.

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