Diver

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)

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