March 2018

Back to Issue 3

Language is a labyrinth of paths

By Davina Allison

– Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations           


You bring me the sea in your palms,

the ebb and drift of tides

on your skin,

in your hair — salt on your tongue —

and when you turn to me, I can hear

the soft throating

of gulls stranded by night winds.

You tell me   

of your passage from the deep

through squalls and flocks of shearwaters

and you tell me how cold the sea is.

But let me loosen your wet hair  

in this light —

white sweet violets by the bed —

and tomorrow

I will find a fishing boat to take you back to the sea.

Love, let me watch

how soft the light

is on your face while you sleep.