This is where the drowned climb to land.
For a single night when a boat goes down
soaked footprints line its cracked path
as inside they stand open mouthed at a fire,
drying out their lungs, that hang in their chests
like sacks of black wine. Some will have stripped
down to their washed skin, and wonder
whether they are now more moon than earth —
so pale. Some worry about the passage,
others still think about the deep. All share
a terrible thirst, wringing their hands
until the seawater floods across the floor.
Best Scottish Poems 2014
Saoirse from “Song of the Sea”