Celia, the Sea Does Not Remember You

Celia, the Sea Does Not Remember You

Waves are not waves

But the convulsions of a body

That has forgotten the bones it conceals.

The sea a wound that refuses to close.

Celia goes there because the sea soothes her.

She goes there because the air cools her.

She observes gannet and curlew

As one watches

The slow collapse of a star.

A big black sea bird stands in the surf 

Like an officiating priest.

Its eyes are two shells

Filled with the residue of night.

Around it, strands of time drift like algae

Torn from the seabed.

The bird cries and dissolves

Into furious light.

The sea shall sing,

And so she sings

Just as the sea-bells ring.

The sea kisses with salt,

And the salt stings

The eyes, the throat.

The sea is not a wound after all,

But the cleansing grit

That burns away the pain of living.

Celia comes to nothing and nothing comes

But the next wave.

She is lost from view

And the blue deep closes over

Bones already forgotten.

The sea does not remember you,

But I do.

And perhaps the gannet and curlew do too.

Until then, the sea.

Until then.