Patricia Wooldridge
Sea Cut
Sitting like an oyster pressed in sand,
I cut myself out,
pleat up the folds and pull
herringbone sky
collecting me in my upward glances,
meeting myself and you
lying on the shore
where our thoughts get pushed into surf -
rope sud ravelling
the flake and rinse and rub on pebble -
blunting the blades of your hands.
*
I feel like a full stop.
On a good day
I'm a question riding time in -
a purl of brent geese unravelling.
Stop here, stop here,
the herring gull cries.
I want to plane down the air
and spread these hands
if I could get behind your face
and turn you back.
What time is it?
It's March, at a quarter past nine.
*
I'm being gassed by an overdose of air,
walking in your want to feel the storm,
needle rain at my face.
You hold me with our backs on the wind,
horses huddle, heads down, snuck in the gorse -
we're in the thick of it watching waves.
The tide is in; black weed jellyfish the sea;
the light is a quickening
back and flick on the bow of me.
I'm emptying the sea through a hole in the sand,
it's impossible you say, but it's here.
The sea has crept into a corner,
you and me tiny at the edge,
and I'm emptying the sea through a hole in the sand.
I cut myself out,
pleat up the folds and pull
herringbone sky
collecting me in my upward glances,
meeting myself and you
lying on the shore
where our thoughts get pushed into surf -
rope sud ravelling
the flake and rinse and rub on pebble -
blunting the blades of your hands.
*
I feel like a full stop.
On a good day
I'm a question riding time in -
a purl of brent geese unravelling.
Stop here, stop here,
the herring gull cries.
I want to plane down the air
and spread these hands
if I could get behind your face
and turn you back.
What time is it?
It's March, at a quarter past nine.
*
I'm being gassed by an overdose of air,
walking in your want to feel the storm,
needle rain at my face.
You hold me with our backs on the wind,
horses huddle, heads down, snuck in the gorse -
we're in the thick of it watching waves.
The tide is in; black weed jellyfish the sea;
the light is a quickening
back and flick on the bow of me.
I'm emptying the sea through a hole in the sand,
it's impossible you say, but it's here.
The sea has crept into a corner,
you and me tiny at the edge,
and I'm emptying the sea through a hole in the sand.
Patricia Wooldridge lives in rural Hampshire and loves being a short journey from the sea. She works at Portsmouth University teaching creative writing. Many poems have appeared in a variety of journals. She feels most alive when writing.
Page(s) 111
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