Water Ogham
She came up from
the ocean of night
to teach me her
of wet druidry.
“Here is Womb,”
she whispered through
the larynx of gale,
pointing to sea-wet
on her fish-scaly thighs.
“This is the water
of birth and firstness,
blue glitters at noon,
seal-cries off shores as
long as ten lives.”
I listened and sighed
like a conch on the
sands of my dream.
A wave foamed round her
ankles as she squeezed
at both nipples.
“Here is Milk,”
she said, putting
a finger in my mouth.
ìThe water of thirstís
greed, the inside
bite of ripe apples
too far from the
ache of your reach.
Thus she proceeded
to teach me her tongue
as I lay on the sand,
drawing signs on my body
with her watery voice:
T for Tides, the song
of red passions
that never remain;
S for Still Waters
and eddying bliss;
C for Cold Brine,
cleft by the narwhal
brutally curved horn;
The salt triad of
Wave-Rise, Foam-Crash
and Slow Hissing Ebb.
Her voice gripped
my sex as she voweled
Spume, hot quickness
thick with its
million thrust sperm;;
then belled me
down Well, my sighs
a coracle between
the two worlds.
She taught me the
correspondences too,
how Womb is the secret
register of Tides
and that Milk is
in greatest receipt
in Still Waters
yet starriest
between Waveís
arousal and ebb.
How Spume in Brine
resounds loudest
down Well.
All night she sang
over me as I slept
on that beach,
lost in her faery salt
voice between wave
-crash and wind-roar,
the brutal black
of the sea night
a secret oratory
where the old songs
are still taught.
How many ages was
I subsumed and
reclaimed by the
two worlds
as her voice
swam over me,
twining its kelp
in my ear?
When I woke she
was gone, slipped back
into an ocean I may
never shore again.
The ogham vanished
too from my mind,
leaving only a silvery
lattice like ghostly
stairs in my mind,
each a fish flapping
on the sands of first
light, each a letter,
a wetness, a tale
of blue thrall.
I'm re-learning that
language through
my poems, song after
song hauling pails
to this white strand
and hurling words
full at that depth
she took with her
when she dived,
filling back a sea
too strange for this
world, though surely
it mothers and sirens
and muses its shores.
This is Womb,
I write. Seals on the
rocks singing
“We too are of God.”
Waves roaring
all the way to
the dark room where
new lovers sleep,
floating on Still
waters, their bodies
silvery with
Tides, Milk and Spume.
I send the sweet
juice of their apple
down to that grove
of old language
where my fish-lady
waits and listens,
rapt for itís savor
as I am to for hers,
the both of us
carving an ogham
on two sides of soul,
touching Still Waters
where Waves smash
us whole.
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