Gráinne Smith

The sea pours voices into shells.
This one whispers of love, tenderness,
the gentle caress
of waves rippling
to stroke, kiss, lick.
Languorous. Bliss.

This one laughs, gleeful,
of whirling petticoats,
rainbow lace dancing
a wild schottische, in endless formation,
curving to the final curtsey.

This one cries, gurgling,
sucks at warm and willing shores,
fingers spread to move the flow;
dreaming, towards slow serenity.

And this one thunders,
grim rage rolling,
screaming down on
unprotected heads.
Smashing, destroying,
tearing asunder.

This one tells of longing,
the ache of loss,
cold bones drifting, white,
with the tide. Salt tears
seeping through shifting weed.