Being Here

Fuschia flowers, weighted with rain.
Brown bog, covering the land.

All night I dream
winged otters that leap from a sea
the colour of ink. The sea breaks over black rocks,
wave upon wave, the rocks are far out
in deep water at night.

I wake and I try
to believe the grey light.

All day the otters stay close. Untamed and lithe.

The rain comes again.
The sky bends close to an earth
wrapped in flesh and in sadness.