by Sarah Gwyn Williams
Night tide rolls the shingle westward
to the beach house door.
Moondrift ghosts the blown-glass frosty
and we, beneath the rat-paw quiet eaves
submerge in oyster-bed and
breathe like bursts of fire under water,
prising open mussel shells
and tasting seaweed, softly
with fronded tongues of anemone.
Drift-riding currents we suspend time
in pools, deep green and brined
by our own saline skin.
Surfacing, we find our breath
has danced the window into ice
and we rise, blanketed, shaking white salt
from our hair, to defy water with fire.