Transatlantic

Whole sardines line the horizon,

shimmer like eyes after a hard cry.

I smear a silver bite on bread;

think miracles, loaves and fishes,

mouthfuls of ocean,

heaving waves, ways of knowing

the hands of a fishmonger,

a dash of Viking.

The tapestry is nearly done;

I complete it with a sailor's knot,

float it across the water,

add my name to the passenger list,

become next of kin,

drink a toast to St. Elmo's fire.

I let it steal my tongue;

swallow, and still find the taste of it. 

tk/December 2013


Sexy read by the dashing, bewhiskered R.A.D. Stainforth...is it my imagination...or is the boat rocking? 

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Atlantic Waves

(Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth ... with a small contribution from Amy the cat ...)


In the space between the crash

and pull of this wave,

I give you a landlocked heart,

chest deep, tumbled

incandescent as sea glass.

Turn it over,

examine it

in the palm of your hand.

See how important it is,

how far it traveled.

Press it

to your lips,

feel the soft-spoken stone

whisper bottle green

in your listening mouth.

Let it dissolve whole,

release the saved-up thirst,

the delicate, jellied passion.

All you hear is the sea.

Nothing else matters.

tk/ March 2013

Meal Beach, Burra Isles, Shetland by Robin Gosnall 

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