Broken Verses

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I would like to thank the Arts Council for a fellowship to the Santa Maddalena Foundation during the writing of this book — and Beatrice Monti della Corte for her extraordinary hospitality at Santa Maddalena.

The old dream, once more.

I stand in a beach hut, looking out. The window frame in front of me reduces the world to a square of sun and sea. Into that square a woman falls, her arm drawn up in front of her face. She splashes into the water. I run out. Her body is caught in the surf, a dark tumbling shape. Above, there is nothing but sky. The waves recede, leaving her on the sand. I rush down, see scales where I expect legs. I have seen a mermaid once before, spent hours splashing water on to it to save it from dehydration. I remember the ache of my arm from the effort, but not whether I saved the creature. It is evident nothing will save this one. I turn towards the hut to see why people are shouting, and when I look back she is gone, only her impression remaining. I know what is necessary. I must cut out the sand which is imprinted with her body, lift it up, and bury it. But the sea is coming in again and I know that, faster than I can respond, waves will wash away the contours of her body, the graceful curve of her tail.

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