Their boots were boats, and when they wore them out of concrete necessity, ready to dance with the sea in their sea boots, in their thirst for an earth less hard and more forgiving, quitting
air strikes for cramped boats, forcing their feet into boots full of watery shadow, fear followed. They closed the sun, and the square boards below made hollow tapping in the hold. Here is the footfall
of those who go fishing for hope, undone in their boots. Worn out. Now become shadowfloat. A fleet of dead boats, sighing on the sand bootless and unflagging as the sea. [End Page 387]
CALLY CONAN-DAVIES hails from the island of Tasmania. Her poems have appeared in The Hudson Review, Subtropics, Poetry, Quadrant, The New Criterion, Virginia Quarterly Review, The Sewanee Review, Southwest Review, The Dark Horse, Harvard Review, and many online journals. She lives by the sea.