Mayfleece

MAYFLEECE

Seawater, shook from hands benumbed. Groping, with silence, as the tide turns. Fingers raw, sore in the cracks where the weed cuts. Salt, goaded deep into every gash, by every revealing grasp. Whilst the windbag Atlantic breath encircles full and prattles beneath my clothing. And I, wince

And repeat the rhythm of the hour; arms in full embrace, fumbling, clumsy, onto the wall, in to the cabin and the kiln, for pennies. Until a sea-searching shore of silver twilight Washes a different tide over the smoldering kelp and the blistering breath that embezzles my life ceases by night, to posses me.

©1992-2009 Prof David Marshall PhD. The right of David Marshall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with various UK, Irish and international legislation on Copyright, Design and Patents. Reproduction only by written permission from the author, David Marshall