The Edge of Water

She said the edge of any water was a place of power, where earth and air lift water to a lens in the sun: put your palms flat on the water, she said, pray if you can. After she died, I took this shore as my home, and by morning and night I walk down steps of stone; I lift my trouser in both hands and crouch by the sea, where the water spins and curls, carrying shells to me. But someone already colored the magic of this beach; It rises in birds and Greek words, beyond my speech. I should have stayed in the North, where I was born: it seems my pulse is too slow for the Southern sun. I need a greater ocean in sulk and storm, and a thatched house where I can run to be warm.