Text: Current

from Les Wicks, 02.10.09

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The kelp moves

in vast stretching strokes it's

colour dictated by competing

sun & shade hiding

hives of life.

My silhouette too

is part of those

neutral but defining

lines of light.

The immediate gut-peace on contact with the sea, still

my feet rest in steel, words connect

webless urban imagery....

round paintballs of purple coral, fingerlings

slice like machines across a Sanskrit of naked sand.

They are busy collecting

while a tectonic blue groper moves

as part of some greater tide.

A round puckered scar on his side (a speargun's work?) matches

one on my shoulder caused

by sun & pierced ozone.

We exchange glances, but no understanding is possible.

Both wounded, we are genetic puzzles

passing on separate journeys

amid the peace & casualty

of an ocean quiet.

Our locomotion buried in tumescent sea.

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