Saturday, 10 September 2011

Nausicaa; burner of ships

She strings out the wracked cream undershirts of sailors along the stones,
Wraught with salt, the sea laps lapels, starches the soiled seams,
And the pebbles snuggle up against the buttons.
The sea marbles her feet, nails varnished, classically artful in coral.
Nausicaa pulls her hair from its tie and lays it in the water,
The fish swim in its darkness.
Molluscs hanker from their rock grips for the tendrils of tenderness opening and closing their puckered lips towards her, ruffled like feathers in the wind,
Poor shells. The crabs stagger to be near her.
And Nausicaa’s cheek is pressed against the sand,
She has closed her eyes and is imagining it’s a hand.

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