Poem

Eight

It is the rock pools

green swaying womb

waters that draw me in

the quiet enclaves of 

melancholy nurturing

spineless fingers

and silver glints of spawning

warm Greek bays

side-slips in

the choleric fission

frothing on the teeth

of Arthur Daly barnacles

- an octopus

clinging with seven

while eight swings freely

hungry -

eight is the number

you died when I was 

eight

leaving me swinging

and clinging

hungry for the rock pools

in a sea 

gone mad.

(C) Pru McAlpin Saimoun