POEM

WAVES (2004)

I

I roll away from the warmth of your curve,
cleaned by the salt air,
to where the tapering arc of the island’s southern tip
is split by a narrow channel. Where
line after line of waves charge from opposite tides
and clash - spew shouts of white, vertical
in the morning sun.

II

Pebbles like goose-bumps
sweat and shine as

the sequinned sea billows,
is gently lifted

in late afternoon, unzipped
by unseen fingers

falling on the shore
petticoat white

gasps tumbling over
into the air

that plays with my ear.

III

We walk towards the village
through olive groves and amber waves
of irregular wheat fields that lay
half-filled with wildflowers
hissing in the southerly.

And I am reminded of a sound
smiling and fragrant -

my grandmother pouring sugar,
before breaking eggs.

IV

A cold front over the island
conjures restless shadows
in the swollen, blue-black tide
that thwacks and snaps
monumental questions
against the unmoved dock;
where we stand -
our fingers braided
like hemp rope
at midnight in moonlight.

V

From this height there are no waves.

Just flat blue, carefully painted
into the tan curve of the bays
bleeding emerald and silt-yellow,
intermittently flashing
white like fire-flies.

But I understand the illusion;
Know there are waves down there
that have always been there,
since that first tide came
silently pulling our blood
backward and forward.

(mike smith 2004)