Seahorses

Some days, like the days when we sit silently; on concrete steps we poured ourselves.

There are seahorses.

Floating like mystical magicians who promise gentle tricks.

Writing poems in salty water.

There are seahorses.
Wondering at things which cannot be bought.

And if I can gaze through the glass:

Forcing myself to be present for the child by my side.

He and I might swim upwards, and – with my tail curled around his – float for a moment in scaly oblivion.

We won’t be envious.

Which is a human thing and not for seahorses.

We will accept kindly offered gifts of shrimp and swim on soft currents, in sepia light.

When we come to the surface, the world will be the same.
Nothing will have changed.

Except, now we will know, that God is an artist.

And that there are seahorses

Beneath us.
There are seahorses.
They are there.