The Same Deep Water As You

February 7, 2010 at 1:37 am (Sea) (, )

We find the hagstones amongst the poison salt-muck of the docks. The grime of this boat’s bed comes up in submerged, swampy clouds that lap perilously high at our green-blue rubber boots. He turns; a profile of stern, angular humour, pale eyes empty, smile like unfolding paper shapes. We plunge our numb, pink hands in past the plastic cider bottles, jellied weeds and grazing concrete to collect these stones, ashen and cold, a perfect hole through the centre. We jam them into the pockets of my thin summer dress as we walk. Dusk – the shoreline turns to wild, geometric shadow-shapes. Perhaps the whole dock is reflected in his
the curves of a lit horizon, the pier’s jagged outline. He takes the penknife (it is so small in his rough, bark worn hand. It is so cold) and makes an opening in the shell of barbed wire that protects the hollow underbelly of the pier. Inside the floor is old stone, glass and needle, a metal crater becomes our table. We are to take a hagstones between the thumb and forefinger, caress, wish, look through its empty stone eye, we are to see the future, we are not to believe a single movement of the ritual – but perhaps you saw. I threw every one out to sea.
Today we are fervently beautiful, and need no enchantment in our brief lives.

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