No need for wings or legs
in the buoyant tide of the ocean.
Like the f hole in a cello
where the music seeps through.
Miscellaneous notes in the waves
symphony. Shaped like a pick I
used to clean Lacquer’s hooves,
removed earth from the iron
shoe so he could soar higher
when sweat poured down
his back, salty as the ocean’s
surf, smelling of the undersea.
Published in Agenda (UK)
