The morning has sprouted from the ground like a plant –

in its whiteness is a beach where unsayable bird-noises are

asking to be loved – the birds just breathe and breathe out.


The lame mouth of the sea – bungled in a bog where

the roots of old, long-dead flotsam jagged and spiked

as though the Earth’s ribs – opens widely and eats. The


breathy noise of the wind, the roar of the sea like someone

in the distance. I leave the cold railings and sand and noise –

I’m jealous of that famous quiet.


I envy your distance. You laugh away in the water,

swimming almost naked, not as the day you were

born but naked as though dead – as if forever asleep.


And still asleep you call and laugh. Laugh laugh laugh.

I’m jealous of you. I’m green like the seaweed or the sea itself,

mossy and oily and almost black. I hear you calling a Ker


as though you want me dead. Into the water I go with you

by my side singing and laughing, laughing to death, it doesn’t

matter though, the water is cold but we make ourselves warm.


© Michael Holloway