Under this shroud
anything passes. This mastless drift
of ships dreams turgid wakes
slopped by mud on weed slime
haven walls. In ports, seeped back
to faded maps, steeples disappear. Streets
drain into hidden homes where no-one
fillets scrimshaw scrapes or
rottensmells old bones, fished
from soups in whittled time.
but the haunt.
I swear I saw a swirl of them,
Decked out in green, despite the early month.
So fragile, yet so fierce against that force – they still
Rooted in that shifty tilth. Although
No saw was seen, by stealth all flatten
Later, to rise right up again – and to repeat that trick
Twice daily, bright and bold as ever they had been before.
So, watcher, which lifeforms were these?
Copyright © Beth McDonough 2016
Beth McDonough first trained in Silversmithing at Glasgow School of Art. Often writing of a maternal experience of disability, she finds poems when swimming in the Tay, foraging and when riddling with Anglo-Saxons. Currently, she is Writer in Residence at Dundee Contemporary Arts.