Anenome

Your hand on my lip,

testing the hardening bristle

finding dimly;

baby simplicity nothwithstanding,

your father there sure as any rusk

And he feeling flimsy for you,

not tough enough to take

firm hands to your wavering grasp

like coral, or a polyp

in the terrifying sea, anchored

to it’s maternal unyielding spot

I am the passing diver

or maybe even still 

just a flickering fish 

heading back to shallows

or perhaps I am an anemone

filtering these cold currents

for nourishment,

and my hard worn hand,

flashes with yours, reaching

ever hopeful in the darkness. 

River Stories

You said if the river carries more than mud 

you’ve yet to see it, but I saw a tern take an eel, 

and in the challenge of slower beaks drop it.

And I know that eel wriggles it’s Sargasso desperate dance

into banks where mudlarks take their chance

hoping for storied relics;

the musket ball with tooth attached,

the jawbone of a bronze age girl 

whose mission for mussels ended in a muddy trip

and countless rings thrown in anger 

or lost from fasting fingers 

when the boatman dropped an oar

This river carries more than mud, 
and hides a world besides

Stories folded in the filthy loam 
and sent on a spring tide home.