A full moon, and the tide swollen by rain,
Rain lashing on the window, wild as rage -
My pen is stirring on the unspoilt page
In scribble circles, feeling round this pain.

Like tunnels leading deeper than my mind,
Or ropes in hopeless tangles, loosely curled,
Sprawling intestines looped around the world
My pen describes; this pain is ill-defined.

The tide has turned: so smooth the surface sits,
But now the current strongly drags beneath.
A leaf that hovers still, moves like a breath
Blown suddenly. Snatched seaward, twigs and bits.

All watery debris rides the sea-sucked road
Leaf mould, and rags of moonlight, glistening threads;
Down beats the rain. My pain flies out in shreds
As ocean swallows back her salty load.

This pen slides free, and speaks my troubling thought.
What held me back from spilling out that pain?
Was it the brooding moon, blinded by rain?
Or the flood-tide; my mind a leaf, flood caught?

Freda Davis 1973