Jean Sprackland
Poems
Spilt
You took handfuls of sea
to fill the moat of your brother’s castle.
First you ran, then went low and steady,
but still it spilt. And you
didn’t see this as the fault of the water,
its special talent for escape. To you
this was one more failure
to be shaken off with the weight of childhood.
You shaped the bowl of your hands,
pressed your fingers together,
held it against the sun to check the seal,
crouched in the shallows,
scooped again, again.
And here you are, going low and steady
between your two lives, walking
the impossible street that connects them.
It’s dusk. A neighbour
setting bottles on her doorstep
throws you a foreign glance.
And still you arrive
with nothing to offer the people you love
but damp fingers, the evidence.
from Tilt (Cape, 2007)
Previous - |
Random - |
Site built and maintained by Castle Computer Services