Beyond Washed Stars

She is swept by wind and blind
as snow, and she sits on a bench
that overlooks the sea. Hers is
a salt-soaked throne facing
the horizon and its prism sky.

And she stares. Steady as
a pointing stick. Colourless.
Looking beyond what I see.
Beyond a sculptor's marble.
Beyond the washed stars.

And like chinless men who
stroke their beards, she keeps
her eyes closed, tight as fists.
And why, I wonder, would
a blind person close their eyes.

And I watch her sitting calm
as half-light at sunset, her hair
a tangling mane in the wind,
and if my manners were not
an obstacle, and if I were not

raised to keep myself to myself,
I would've asked her if this
wind-rushed scenery feels like
a confined space, a dark womb,
and does the sea sound like

Beyond Washed Stars

a snarling orchestra, or does it
speak to her like a conversation,
a clack of venetian blinds, or is it
muddled brown by the confusion
of seagulls tracking overhead and
nesting in the chalk cliffs below.

And I pull my coat close to me
as the weather turns moody
as dark eyes. But that girl,
she doesn't seem to notice.
And the world remains blind.