Tuesday, 11 December 2012

Oceanus and Tethys

   
We sat in my row boat,
sweet Tethys and me,
awaiting a horizon
that promised
much calmer seas, for the sun to rise, pink,
and the dark waves to cease
their cold, harsh semblance,
of my days.
  
And she ran her fingers
with most careful grace, along
every scar
in my boat
of wood,
singing something soothing
as all good sea-nymphs should;
and she would say nothing,
as she silently,
read my mind.
  
She could see all the seashells I had
once left behind, and all the times
I'd walked this shore,
long after the tide,
searching and turning,
only to painfully find,
I'd cut my finger
lifting the pretty ones
from the sand.
   
And she seemed to know,
without words,
that I could no longer stand
to trust my own
torn
and bleeding hands,
to hold them,
and know their beauty,
without a pinch, or a snare.
   
But though she had
those terrifying
seashells, in her hair,
and the most beautiful for the suggestion
of clothes;
it frightened her none,
and she sat,
like a goddess in my leaking boat;
  
patiently waiting there,
whilst Oceanus mended his holes.
     

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