The sea stretches and undulates her currents
like a giant serpent. Over darkened water
the tang and scent of apricots, exhaled
from beneath a woman’s veil, paints her echo
against the lap of wind among tides.
News of her death was sudden.
Her children had scant time to mourn
before rattling the cold dusty pebbles
of her bones down a funnel
into the earth.
How the land paces the shore now,
bereft of footfall, sand marked
only by the braided trail of a turtle
who, having spewed her pearl eggs,
waddles back to glide through starlit weed,
her children left to birth themselves
and brave gulls unprotected as they erupt
from their living grave and scramble seaward.
All mothers must leave -
choose their time to leave.