dawn spits colour
there , a mother cleans
her new borns

wave

throws spume

lifted high

painting pebbles

white

beach laid flat by hurrying sea
dries to be etched by the wind.

delicate trails. dynamic drawings
of the current that, in passing children,
they chase.

swiftness that makes it own draught.
it does not compete; just adds
footsteps to the sand

rain here by ransomed
drafts from warmer
continents

my space is chaffed
by the hidden soil
trailed from used
oceans

i, see

a stranded twirl
of stone pesce tail

still magic
despite miles
despite age
spites my eyes
spites vanity
bites
me

there. i am beguiled, so stand,
as i too wear into sand

what means this

raised hand

a fist



figure me not

i see hope

aloft

(but)

in that salute

jut square

in air



is threat, malice

violent

prejudice



halting fear and

lower that hand

take mine in yours

no weapons

in our wars

i hear my hurt
from the inside
wailing and weeping
on the outside
suffering splits me
so that sound
escapes

her tears run
round reddened eyes
past pink lines

ink marks it's paper
to tell a story