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Beneath
  

the blue       the depths       the waves       weeds       fish
beneath the bobbing plastic yesterdays
beneath the dark
beneath the silt-slung depths
beneath the places where the light no longer lingers
is a silence no-one hears

here there is no language of vowels and breath
no language                              no breath
        no weight of arms no creasing of skin
        and earth into maps of night
                                              there is no darkness here
                                              set singing with light
no tangle of legs and yesterdays finding full stops
in the gathering of eyes and lips into the familiar crook
of an unknown other                            no eyes
like moths set flickering against sensation and skin

Just water.  Skies full of water.
And a bed       empty       forgetful
and wide as the waves.


[previously published on London Grip]

It was the trees

It was the trees, lifting their tangled heads above the sea-swell,
heaving the trunks proud again, above the waves, unwinding their roots,
bending, again, towards the light, who told us it was so.  The land
slipped beneath the sea, quietly, without warning.  We woke
to trace the shifted outline of our lives, slid
unseen into a shadow shape we knew we didn’t know.  Grown
over us, under us, the wave pins light to the shore, lets it fall
way back to where we once walked.  Something drives us
inland, in retreat from ourselves, suddenly new waves - no
more than the mountains that cracked in the sun.  We leave homes behind
and all we have known until now.  Today, it changed.  And we changed, too.

And all we have known until now, today, it changed - and we changed, too;
more than the mountains that cracked in the sun.  We leave homes behind,
inland, in retreat from ourselves.  Suddenly new waves - no
way back to where we once walked - something drives us
over us, under us, the wave pins light to the shore, lets it fall
unseen into a shadow shape we knew we didn’t know, grown
to trace the shifted outline of our lives, slid,
slipped beneath the sea. Quietly, without warning, we woke
bending, again, towards the light.  Who told us it was so?  The land
heaving the trunks proud again, above the waves, unwinding their roots:
it was the trees, lifting their tangled heads above the sea-swell.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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