Times change, don’t they? But, of course, there’ll always be water.
Ice caps grazing, oceans rising, crashing up over the quay water.
White, blue, ancient, new: Earth meets comet,
whirlwind romance; us-them-you-me-water.
Will you see it come true? Sitting on your porch, splitting
along your fear-fault? Omaha reflected in sea water.
By a crazy golf windmill, where God equals ocean,
bulbs blink like rain along a marquee: WATER.
You might find yourself staring into a scuzzy
birdbath with a fast food straw. Hey! Long time, no see, Water.
Shimmer roads, lines melt to meaningless. He says
to her: ‘Look for the sign that says JUNCTION D: WATER’
In a northern green desert, hidden like a voice in
a hologram, stands the last fountain of free water.
Sunlit, amniotic—through sixty-five per cent
H2O—Michele’s fear asks: ‘What if we cease to be water?’
MICHELE WAERING began thinking about the ghazal form through the poetry of Francis Brabazon and Hafiz. After further research led her to Ravishing Disunities by Agha Shahid Ali, she thought she might try writing ghazals herself. She lives in Renfrewshire, Scotland.