Glas.
by and published in Edition Two of Pomegranate
Daddy’s chin stings when we greet. His hair isn’t like mummy’s.
He warns me not to break the surface of the water, not yet.
Through the creased transparency drizzled gold
rubs and licks the mounds of rocks, shells nestle
in their prickly tips; the oar splinters
one -bubbles rise as its insides disintegrate.
I’m highlighted yellow in my life jacket,
mummy’s hair and scent are still on my neck.
**
A painter used thirty seven greens to paint this scene.
Glas means blue and green- as Daddy rowed us to the boat I never
thought to ask where the forest started and the sea ended.
Claire Trevien
