Now in the yawning of the year

Adjust the dial and tune in to hear,

These waves, humming Rockall, Malin, Hebrides

“The forecast is moderate or good

Becoming pitch perfect, pitch dark”


Beneath the sleet and the surface,

Bubbles like liquid clues,

Trace a Selkie’s steps.


His fins bandaged in neoprene,

Eyes stinging; adjusting to the salt and the green


What does it smell like, this sea?

What does it sound like, this depth?

What does it taste like, this cold?

Like kings, queens and urchins suspended in brine,

Treasure tugging on a weighted line


Head bowed, nuzzling the coral

Veering northwest, out of the blue

Pushing up, up, with a yuletide haul

And inhaling the new rapture

Of a winter’s deep midnight


(with reference to A Nocturnal upon St Lucy’s Day, by John Donne, and In the Mid-Midwinter by Liz Lochhead)


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s