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Move to a boathouse by a river – the walls must be yellow, the windowsills blue. Sleep downstairs with your head upstream, wait for a dream of swimming.
When it rains all night and you lie awake collecting the music of a leak and reading The Observer’s Book of Water until you’ve learned that chapter
on whirlpools and waterspouts by heart, listen to her whisper and giggle as she scribbles her slippery name over and over down the glass.
Have a bucketful of oysters in the sink in case she’s feeling peckish and a case of Rainwater sherry chilling in a cave behind the waterfall.
At the bottom of the well there’s one white pebble – put it beneath your tongue until it dissolves into a kiss.
Become so dry she will slip into the shape of your thirst. Prepare to be a shiver on her surface. Taste her arrival on the wind. |
