East to west, west to east,
the promenade wall.
Oil and chemical, salt and tar:
the night is in my throat.
I consume distances
at the edge of the river,
three am, solitary
held only by the rain and the sky.
The wind’s touch is courageous.
The stars are stags,
antlers pointed at each new shore
far from here, in some sunny waters.
I open to it like a mouth and sense her shining
full height on the horizon,
as if the horizon is a ledge she balances upon,
and hovering I rush to her,
her starriness, her electric pulses
that beckon, she widens:
I immerse myself in her thighs.
Her whiteness, her size.
I am her: the sea is a boat.
We ride until the dawn.
© Eleanor Rees, Andraste’s Hair (Salt, 2007)