by JP Davies
In the flesh of these wings
sea swells,
salt in their workings
salt in their sweat.
Rising in the marrow, rain
makes every cell mutinous as rivers.
Worked by salt these wings
wind take me higher
to consider sea or sky
before I dry out,
before sun makes horizon,
makes sense of this greyness.
The wind will take me down and up
and only so far
before I nose
nerve-straight for the water,
gills squalling for breath;
before the current turns,
or whatever turns the current stops,
whatever moves me on strings of air,
whatever shakes out the sea
like a blanket in the backyard.
Published in Channel