Mudlark No. 63 (2017)

		      A heavy snow yesterday. This morning,
	    snowman on the strand with seaweed hair.
			      Grey water laps at snow. Snow angels...

		 In 1607, a wall of water entered the bay.
   At first glance, it looked like a fog bank, twelve stories high, 
	   churning toward the town at incredible speed
      (the mind not able to contain what it was seeing, 
							      find the words...) 
 Was there a woman, out on this strand, collecting laver,
								              who turned, 
		    saw that wall of water rushing towards her —

	black mouth of the sea finally open, cacophony 
		      of ancient bodies, voices, pulled from black tombs:
sailor-screams, long lost in the deep, 
 			                 flying up from the churning crest, 
	crying out the names of the dead, a joyous shriek,  

			      swallowing the sky whole — 

	        and paralyzed by terror, end-of-days thunder

			 nowhere to run, nowhere to run  
		                did she drop her basket 
				   and raise her arms
			                up in praise?  

Christien Gholson  | Notes
Contents | Mudlark No. 63 (2017)