I plough the waters on the edge of shore,

from time to time I watch that single fishing boat

run the island's length, out there, out the back,

trawler, like me, ourselves' own islands.

Devoid of eyes, the shores are left behind

like me

all the view is cloaked,

reflective darks and whites and greys.

The sea echoing softly murmuring, and gently flat

on the breathless, changing air ; 

mysterious, the island lost of form ;

the trawler clear, storm arising, tide

incoming and strickening sound

my feet, soft and moaning as the wind

on the rise, swirling, flotsam,

carrying who knows beneath ? 

I feel us yearning, for kind, for completion, aching

to not 

want, the sand laid bare

under my barest feet,

tunnels and ridges exposed, lost shells in only

white, sticks and weeds...

Run through the storm, I cry ! On the full tide

let me plunge in the heavy swells,

let storms break over me, drift me awash and away !,

White sea under the purple sky,

white gulls and lapwings crowd,

and jetsamed beach tenses, waiting...

Strange light illuminates our loss :

that trawler's catch,

that island's sight,

that shore's presence,

those sea-birds' flight, and

my you.

 ©Anne-Marie Hicks, 2017. All rights reserved.