She Walks on Water
       

The air is heavy with salt spray and kelp.
The seagull's tongue is dumb.
Dark hair hides the face
of the madonna on the beach.

Hands like silver starfish
lift a long skirt, reveal pale knees;
a cerulean scarf flutters in the breeze.

She turns away from
the promenade's ice-cream smiles
and waving kites,
shrugs off the dirty-weekend hotel
moored in the harbour's embrace.

Her spirit becomes a sail.
Her eyes are the horizon.
Her bare, white limbs shine
with phosphorescence.
The stars lean over to plant kisses
on her forehead.

In the morning haze,
wisps of fog drifting in with the waves,
she walks on water.

A blue strand washes up on the sand
among splintered timbers, plastic wrappings,
sodden cigarette butts.
Perched on a guano-stained mast,
the seagull keeps her secret.

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Copyright © 2011 Michelle McGrane All rights reserved
from The Suitable Girl
Pindrop Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission