Among vetch and dandelions,
hollow shells, inhabitants gorged
by blackbirds whose songs tremble
in summer’s heat, you emerge -
wrap around my calves, bind
my arms, entwine my throat, caress
my neck, my ears – insidious
as haar that creeps in from the sea
to steal the sun. Overhead, siren
insistence of oystercatchers, while
beneath the hawthorn bush
a magpie tilts its head. Across
years and continents,
we cannot decohere.
This poem was first published in Dust Poetry in May 2021.
Your grandmother’s, this set
of six. I imagine her, fine-boned and elegant,
serving turtle soup in these bowls. Delicate
as eggshells, they nestle in their saucers
while golden turtles drift
around their sides, motionless
against a hidden tide.
Remember how we dived with turtles
in sun-sparkled waters of the Gulf;
how you admired their leisured grace,
the slow speed of their flippers
as they flew the sea like air.
Remember how one night we watched
hatchlings splutter from their nests,
tumble down moon-
white sand to bounce
like pennies into hungry surf –
hatchlings as tiny as these bowls
that I will never use
for turtle soup.
Upstream in pools where the water barely flowed but for a gentle kissing of the rocks, a tremor in the mirrored clouds – water transparent as air, sprung from the mountain’s flank, too cold for bilharzia-bearing snails – we found a duiker its hide beginning to flake, its eyes glazed, its legs stiff. We tensed too, my brothers and I, in the cold shock of our discovery. I had not known death before. Not this close. This unexplained.
The sun’s heat bounced off the rocks, drew out the fragrance of the grass. Death did not belong here. Take its legs. Our feet slipping on riverbed pebbles, we dragged the duiker through the pools to where the stream began to quicken, to leap over hidden rocks, swirl in eddies against the banks. Near the precipice the river’s tug became too strong and we released the carcase to the current. It floated haphazardly, tiny hooves bumping alternately against the wavelets and the sky. We ran along the bank to where the river abandoned all containment and hurled down a vastness of rock. The duiker disappeared in that foaming plunge towards the mist-green Honde valley. Above us, white-necked ravens rode rollercoasters of air.
‘Turbulence’ was placed third in the Kent & Sussex Poetry Society Folio Competition 2020.
This poem first appeared in the Bridges 2020 Poetry Anthology (ed. Sarah Glaz), Tessellations Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona. There is a recording of Marian reading this and other poems on the Bridges 2020 Virtual Poetry Reading website.