Some grandmother of mine once
raised her eyes to this horizon.
Not this one, no. A bluer one, a greener,
but she saw the weather coming in,
great storm clouds, brown as bruises,
waded to shore, gathered her children.
Tucked in out of the rain, she told the story
of the storm, the fish, the limpet.
That’s how we began. We built the world
from sand and seashells, coloured it
with words, wove ourselves cloaks of myth.
So, yes, I’m called here – my chest
opens at the smell of seaweed,
saltwater echoes in my veins,
my heart the moon. Yes, I look out
to the horizon, watch for weather,
yes, I’m lulled by wavesong,
yes, in this untamed place
I map myself, I claim my own breath. Yes.
Sherry is hosting at earthweal this week and asks us to write about the wild places that we connect…
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