Immortal make

I have promised you a storm;
still the water
is unthunderous. I would paint
you like this—in rippled ink, thin
strokes wavering
on vellum. You wave,
ankle-deep in the coming storm,
skin thinly
sheened with water-
colour—pearl-painted.

 

I would paint
the unweariable waves
on the low-water
plains, just before the storm-
clouds grey the air with thin
thunder and you are vapour-thin,
brine-painted.

 

There is a storm
under my skin. I wave
from the water's edge.
Ink. Paintbrush. I have
promised. The water
is heavy in this thin
air that breathes in waves.