I am not watching waves;
I become them.
In every knuckle of white and in
the dark falling caverns of tight water -
I am taking off the walked steps in sand,
the work worry, world worry, wife worry,
taking it off, off like a sheath.
I look back at this intangible skin I have shed
and I see the poor spirit,
the weave and the heft of it,
the condescending consciousness of self.
from underneath these tonnes and tonnes
of pent up, locked in grit and grief
Now the water holds me in a thumping eye.
It doesn't fawn over my
light, light self, it simply calls me in a bass rumble.
So I go to it.
A finger and foot and hair uncombed -
they all join the sea.
And I am not watching waves, I am them.
I am tall and bold like them; I am fierce.
I sluice and drift like them,
I am the water reed,
I am the wren fishing,
I have no name.
I am a pulse, under a headwind.