Standing In The North Sea
S
Sheena Blackhall
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Standing in the North Sea
The weight of water grips my calves
It's an icy anklet, a chilly shackle
Dropping a look I see
Two stumps the colour of pig's lard
The ghastly pallor of steamed octopus
I feel like the top of a mangrove tree
Surveying my varicose roots
The sand is a shifty floor
Continually sweeping itself
Sifting the hiss of shattered seashells
Like atomised lives, shapeless, reduced to nothing
In the greylag sea that grinds lives like a quern
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş