Wendy Everett

Agnès Varda and the Plough

the Plough is low over the sea tonight
tilling furrows through the stars

the water's silent       almost without movement
hydrogen and oxygen deconstructed into blue

alone on the empty beach       sand cool as silk
I imagine wading into the sea until I am its secret

the reverse of Botticelli or the scene where Mona
emerges from the waves in    Sans toit ni loi

Bach's children

So many children, Bach had!

Sometimes I hear the sound of their laughter
bouncing down the stave

Sometimes I watch as Anna Magdalena
struggles to keep them silent

coping alone, while in the next room,
her husband composes music that will

imprint itself on us like a genetic code.

salt

the magic of salt is the way
it can vanish
and reappear as

           frost

shimmer rocks to another
continent altogether
then disappear in its own

          tears

weep its sorrow deep
into the Aegean
then resurface as light on hot

           skin

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