Tuesday 5 July 2011

Anenome

Your hand on my lip,
testing the hardening bristle
finding dimly;
baby simplicity nothwithstanding,
your father there sure as any rusk

And he feeling flimsy for you,
not tough enough to take
firm hands to your wavering grasp
like coral, or a polyp
in the terrifying sea, anchored
to it’s maternal unyielding spot

I am the passing diver
or maybe even still 
just a flickering fish 
heading back to shallows

or perhaps I am an anemone
filtering these cold currents
for nourishment,
and my hard worn hand,
flashes with yours, reaching
ever hopeful in the darkness. 

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