Sea Iris
I
Weed, moss—weed,
root tangled in sand,
sea—iris, brittle flower,
one petal like a shell
is broken,
and you print a shadow
like a thin twig.
Fortunate one,
scented and stinging,
rigid myrrh—bud,
camphor—flower,
sweet and salt—you are wind
in our nostrils.
II
Do the murex—fishers
drench you as they pass?
Do your roots drag up colour
from the sand?
Have they slipped gold under you—
rivets of gold?
Band of iris—flowers
above the waves,
you are painted blue,
painted like a fresh prow
stained among the salt weeds.
