Mighty, mighty foam, swish, swoosh, roar,
Black peaks threatening, looming
Making, hovering, ready to
Crish, crash, down, down, down.
I’m afraid, I’m afraid, I’m going to be overwhelmed,
By love, by passion, by the sheer intensity and desire,
Bosh-bosh, all done, that’s the end of her.
She’s a small bobbing cork amongst the flecked foam towers,
Look, there she goes, there she blows,
She ‘s lost in love, tossed on the current, like a dog tossing a toy.
She’s a witch flying on her broomstick, between one wall of water and another,
Is there room on your broom?
Am I your witch, are you my warlock?
Are we flung about at the jagged streaming edges?
Will we hurt ourselves on those black-painted spears?
Do I wear my jester’s hat of sea-fret, Do I shake the drops like bells?
Is that the hull of a boat sticking up in the undertow?
Is it the shipwreck of our love?
I’m sprayed, splayed, rained on.
I’m flotsam and I’m jetsam.
I’m cliffs and bays and headland,
I’m sliding up, up and slaloming down, down.
There’s a storm in an unusually calm pool.
Is that why everyone says it won’t last?
Daubed and dibbled and dabbling and paddling,
I can’t just dip a toe, I have to jump right in,
Wrenched up to the heights,
Flung down to the depths,
I cling to a raft,
My wet hair streaming down my back,
Heavy femininity, dragging me down.
I’m tied to a chair with my head hanging forward,
Slap, slap, slap of the crests and
Lap, lap, lap at my feet.
I’m a hostage of the long flow.
The force whacks the back of my head
The wind screams like a banshee
Or is it me?
Crying love, love, love, oh love, save me
The unease and the insecurity
Is tearing at me, tearing at me
Parting me like the Red Sea,
Until I open, I well up,
The tears flow out of me,
And join and merge
With ebbs and flows
Lightning points a finger down,
Silver in the black
Howling “ Weakling! Wimp! Crybaby!”
Jamine Sharif is a member of the Rottingdean Writers’ Group. Wave was inspired by the John Virtue paintings in The Sea, exhibition.