Channel by Mary Norton Gilonne

I am not a silent poet

If it comes it will be with night.
Oil-slicked, lamped pools, rancid fear
rust deep. Soft-footed, crabbing up,
tarpaulin skin slit.

If it comes it will be flashed,
gut-cold, fleshed white, tight
with dread. Raw as boned sea air,
body shrunk, belly taut.

If it comes it will be unlit,
hungered, swallowed down
deep in dirty knots of yellow.
Crate-chinked, lathed with dark.

If it comes it will be tunnelled
port-side, rubber-black
stinking salted silence. Eyes
have never been in need of light as this.

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