Splashers
by Stephen Kingsnorth
19/04/20 | poetry | 1 minute read
The hug of clothes that want to be
my shadow bones, while I stiff tense,
try small to shrink within the mess,
straitjacket, rigid, colds my roots,
exoskeletal mummy trim.
Why then do I more long for room,
skin steamy shower, pores over me?
And why suit swim, delighting fall
ghyll, fountain, installation art,
or watching children muck about?
When, H2O ingredient,
why Gran swearing homeopath -
though malaprop names osteo,
because she thinks it’s preferences -
shows no support for water-sports?
No calories or nutrients,
though always making presence felt,
adapting shape to what without;
dihydrogen monoxide tap -
best-car-model killer exhaust?
I wade lands, curlew, snipe, redshank,
lug shovels sieving wormy tripe,
sea lunar drag on glisten flats,
silt bays, a haemorrhage of waves,
while soles know creep of seeping boots.
The second day, creation’s map,
then floods before Mount Ararat;
whatever myths, curl hieroglyphs,
this damp course stalking every step,
for we are splashers, wet, drip, wet.
about Stephen (he/him/his)
Stephen Kingsnorth, retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces accepted by over a dozen on-line poetry sites; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform Poetry Magazines & Vita Brevis Anthology.