" Awash"
Words are hounding me,
I want placed instead of thrown.
Chilled and dark come to me,
spaced with your name in some crazy
punctuation.
I want to pick marigolds
But they are not in season.
Doors close,
Heavy iron clangs and plastic
molds, shrinks.
People are talking about
whatever people talk about at work.
Someone laughs, there is no suitable music.
I tell him I need the sea,
A stretch of silent sand that has held
our footprints;
A wild silence stretching from here
to grey old Rotterdam.
We drive,
I fling words against the windscreen,
watch them flay under wiperblades.
The neap-tides had turned in the night,
thrown a million starfish to shore.
Three miles of them,
silent, dying.
© 2002 Vienna (Carole Barley)
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