Cribbar
Cribbar
I stand on the precipice,
I drink her eagerly from atop the raw stone.
Her jaws split open in bursts of pure, vicious foam around the feet of civilisation;
I stand caught between worlds, my soles firmly planted in the accountable world of men, While my soul whips and dives in her implausible depths.
Her salty rage spits in the face of the gentle sun, a fine mist of dehydration threatening the lips of those who dare to behold her.
I stand among the bruise budding Squill and blushes of Thrift,
I muse,
I contemplate what place I could have amongst giants.
The march of progress forgets me while I stand, betrays my begrudging loyalty and steams blackly ahead like her inevitable, unenviable swell.
Yet I do envy you mistress;
I long for brine and gelatinous, matted tangles between my toes,
I crave the sharp husks of the shore drawing blood from my feet.
How long must I withdraw from you behind layers of polluted humanity?
When next will I taste your sting as you wash mankind from my body?
When will you reclaim the land? Force the sin of civilisation from your coasts?
Your power unbridled against even the unshakable.
Until then,
I stand,
Until then, there's always next time.
Copyright © Amy Acton | Year Posted 2021
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