Tuesday, 26 June 2012

Standing at the end of Rye pier

Finally - a new poem - first I've written in a long time.

Standing at the end of Rye pier

like tiny insects flying into my eyes,
filling my lips and nostrils
stinging memory to repeat.

stretched out like a birthing bed,
rolling hips, liquid thighs spread
and I swear I see my head.

filled with a clutch of birds that swirl -
rubbish tossed by unseen hands;
how carless the gods!

Beneath my feet the rotted wood sings,
strummed by an ocean that plucks chords
no human can hear
and not feel the pull to jump.

We are not apes, it was not from trees
that we did leap.
We are merfolk, shining skin -
furless as the wind -
with eyes that wish to grasp
the foam on the end of the wave.

The rhythm is the horizon of sound
where wave and sand meet
and we shout into the future
oh dear god below,
what did we leave behind?”

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