Tony Dash
Thirteen for Catherine
Ebbtide ebbtide is all her grief,
its flood returning is no relief.
Crooked age on three knees creeps the street.
Like boneless fish, swollen and cold, her aching feet.
Purple, shrouds the Magdelene and saint,
incantations and thumbs of charcoal crosses,
were all her life’s constraint.
Yet sweet the words of a man who comes wooing,
wooing in her ancient youth,
words with each recall, grow faint.
When cold is in the wings of birds, let her cope.
In her time of ice, save her up.
Save her up, when ebbtide, ebbtide is all her hope.
Page(s) 56
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