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Mama Mada
Water lilies
by Michael Bro w n
We are watching the sun’s slow dive
into the Wirral. You want to touch
the water-stars of its last light.
Soon it will be time for us
to separate.
Outside this frame of hush
that weightless walk back
from the Tate —
where I had wanted to fall
inside the green water lilies
that lay like time
or surface tension.
Do you remember them —
caught in paint,
their lawlessness of oil ?
And here a ferry from Ireland
skulks home to Birkenhead,
its gentle wake of damage
some force fetched to land.
Welcome to Liverpool
I want you to stay
like this. In the time
that remains before the train —
I must hold, hold this.
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