| 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 In the distance a lady’s head has been replaced by a red umbrella and now a pillar box, her body.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. Marion McCready |
If you've any thoughts about this poem, Marion McCready would be
pleased to hear them.
