Jeni Curtis 2014
1.
She dreamed she was a seal
submerged in grey-green waters
another at her side.
no want for breath,
no need to surface
they swam in the depths of the ocean
with whales, dolphins
and darting fish.
2.
On the dresser,
sculpted in black-green stone
a seal,
underneath, a name,
Simanil Kelly, carver,
whom I will never meet.
The heat from my hand
warms its smoothness.
The black and pale striations
speak of its place in the earth
long before it was granted
this shape
this shine.
It does not breathe.
It lies askance, laughing,
flippers raised
in a solid show of joy.
3.
Far below
seals bask in the brisk wind,
the blue-grey sea lashes its foam
and froth across the rocks.
Their fur is wet and shining.
They lie like outcrops,
humped and creased
and rounded.
In the waves
seals body surf and slide.
Pups in a pool
cavort and tussle.
One sleek female lies on her side,
flipper raised nonchalantly,
fingers gloved in leather.
Look, I say,
Look, look,
she’s waving.
On the stone wall
beside me
the little girl waves back,
her other hand clasped warm in mine,
her breath upon my ear.