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I read these waters. The hoarse Hebrides;
the sun-blind surges of El Salvador;
Bermuda’s coral reefs; Dublin’s rock skerries.
I’m the middle between the void and shore.
Far out from in the waves comes the reply.
Mist of sundown rises, stretches away
across the horizon and distant sky.
Reading waves is like talking to Yahweh,
grumpy old man. I draw in the sea, shreds
of speech that wash away. I take sea-weed
off rocks, blood kelp, make them my natty dreads.
A spar is my staff. I am a half-breed;
boyish sea hag; living a life devoid
of words, either on shore or in the void.