Tuesday, 2 September 2008

[poem:] Rebecca Stirrup: 3/4 Water

My glass of water is rare. I can see right through it and the world opposite is turned upside down – precise but for a spreading out. I have drunk it carelessly – twelve steps away I can refill it and do the same again. The water in my glass is polite and still.

When I crossed the river the spray flecked across my face; I was safe on my bridge so it seemed gentle. But looking in the mud surface – the mud we are could dissolve there so easily. Perhaps that is why the water is dark. It has on its mind to erode people as well as soil. It would love to touch my feet and pull me in. The rain is making it fat, and its appetite is growing for solid food.

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