I live by the sea where the water of a river mingles with the salt, they each have their own direction at flood, it is a strange dance. At sea ebb the river has the beach, the sand to itself and spreads out with nothing much to do. Perhaps you would like to see “the space of water:3 poetic enquiries” on the academia website (3artists written/visual experiences).
On a map I hold
a thin blue line defines
a river's course tracing
it's contours to a sign
of tidal negotiations -
a water course too fast
to score a river's migration -
a sluice of undigested silt
loses its alphabet in time.
These words are not those
meandering deltas
to-ing and fro-ing, they're
just a map of tumults
silent approximations
on a page, a vague terrain
where fresh meets salt
which fresh dilutes
and salt deletes.
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