| When I Became a Wave
The land beyond the Firth is gone.
Waves wane into white smirr instead
of dry earth. I’m alone. Somewhere
you’ve gone to bed and left me searching
for Chinese dresses. In the distance
a lady’s head has been replaced
by a red umbrella and now a pillar box,
her body. Tonight I have no need
for dresses or umbrellas.
I am clothed in ash-grey, a breaker
veined with white froth collapsing,
swelling to another crest, rising
as spindrift to season the dewy air.
When hailstones pit the river they smack
the backs of my legs. I head home
dripping with pearls of hail, the zest
of sea on my tongue, in my hair,
on my pillow.
If you've any thoughts about this poem, Marion McCready would be
pleased to hear them.