And what do you say to the
lady
who waits on the shore and
ponders
the ships that glide in the
harbour
towards her, and away.
Away to the gargoyle that fed
her, reared her,
then spat her out on the
ocean,
a shell to be flipped up here.
Washed away:
the grime of her cities,
the rails she has ridden,
the birds she has heard.
And you would have said that
the turns
she has taken, or not taken,
the about-flips, the flustered
hesitations,
must have been the wrong ones,
could have been dead ends.
She sees a son’s face in the
waters,
Byronic curls, down-soft
cheeks.
He’s lost in that ocean,
somewhere in the waves.
Washed away too the nurturers,
the husbanders,
the ready, comfortable, beery
jokes
slipping from their lips.
Their wit knows nothing
of dark tunnels,
their mouths curl, so innocent they, of what lies so
deep,
so deep beneath the waves.
There is the bright world, sunshine glancing, a memory of
a ferris wheel,
smells of old wood and urine, a sour, oceanic tang.
And the boats, bobbing on the water, streaked with
rainbow slicks,
lilacs, puces, ochres.
They said they don’t mix, oil with water,
and yet how they try, she thinks.
Stunning, Sara. And the rhythms you set up are wave like and hypnotic. Beautiful to read this - it's like rolling in the sea.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Efi. This is very encouraging.
DeleteWonderful.
ReplyDelete