When you wave to me save for me no one can see you
but me.
I smell the ozone and I know that I'm home.

Breakers and castles that fall in the surf when the sea's feeling hungry for more and
the shingle that shakes like a pocketful of coins making me wish it were mine.

These are the jewels crashing down upon me,
the silver and gold and the scent of the sea.

And I dream of her in the midnight where wild horses run free, where the harbour's a memory lost out at sea
when you wave to me save for me no one can see, but I see you always
waving to me.

The lichen clung to the side of the rocks.
Bartered with the passing storm
Argued with the winter winds.
Picked at by the hungry birds.
Get baked by the blazing sun.
Could of course have been the Samphire.
Laying on the ledges or on cliff sides
at the edges and then I might be eaten.
More of a delicacy than me,
The only thing that touches me is the rolling lonely sea.
(c) Livvi

Samphire on the sea shore and later
there is more
fish from the sea and all
of it free, I
set my table for the feast
drinking wine,
another taste of the grape and
the yeast
and the least I can do
is
to thank someone fabulous.

Dear god,
what a great job you've done
you gave me all this and
you gave me the sun.

ps got any ketchup?

we swam naked in the sea
for hours
and hours
and later
in the dunes my lips
tricked a sweet pearl
from the singly balanced cradle
deep within those oyster spilt hips
“you taste of samphire”
I gasped
“listen
could you keep a secret
while the ocean foam stings
your throat?”

heard this morning
the bus....
best way to cook possum
skin an gut the poss'
put in an oven bag
with some wine or verjuice
and  herbs
samphire or wattercress
and roast 'im
about the same time as ya
would a chook....
comes out beautiful and tender
ya can do it with echinda too
bit they 're not as good....
bit stringy eh!

How low lies the line, the thin
Separation of Earth and Sky, far, far,
Beyond the bending ambles, the
Solitary gables, where descending pylons,
Unroll their cables, deep into the womb
Of distant cities.

Bellicose clouds in league with
The sea wind, wrest samphire fragments
From a sentinel peace, while folding
The hamlet in pitying glamours
Of harridan water on slate.

In Spartan gardens, Bu-gloss leans
Bruised petals hard, by rusted stanchions,
as bind-**** , knots the flaking perch
Of tumbled gantries, in a throttled
Slew of searching.

Melancholy anthems, quiver and hail
In the breeze-plucked tune of loose
Slung wire. Pleas of long gone mariners
Mutter and choir through salted gorse,..
..
Hurry inland to rattle at doors of
Norman churches, as if seeking
Some last sanctuary.

Rock pools scattered with salty froth
drain quickly to reveal life
Little shrimps cling to samphire
The rushing white wave
beats to the shore
creeping gingerly to the rock cave
as if it has been there before.
The midday sun
settles for the afternoon
the sunbathers just begun
their timed basking on the dune.
A weathered dry oar
lies abandoned on the sand from an old boat
together with bits of ******* washed to the shore
just lying there, anything that would float.
Cracked shells, washed pebbles, and bits of flint
in blues, greys, creams and coral coloured stone
lie draped around the edge of the beach
with seaholly, blue grass and bits of fish bone.
The smell of the sea washes against your breath
you feel alive, but your skin feels dry lie salt
the breath taking views make you good to be there
It is just nice to hear the wind, the sea, the gulls
the call of the dolphin , it is just nice to be alive.

they say it is too cold there. cold as icebergs

none came the year the storm broke, breached
the shingle bank

decisions were made
i hear
to not repair
now there is salt marsh where samphire grows

some eat it
i don’t

i like turkey island

I would like to float on a tiny boat
As lonely as can be.
Between silvery stars, and silvery fish,
In the middle of a dark, cool sea.

I would like to lie down in a freshwater stream,
A reed-tangled, shadowy brook.
Like Ophelia in her watery tomb;
Where no one would think to look.

I would like to be found on some shingle beach,
Blasted dry by the desolate air.
My siren song has died in my throat,
And I've samphire in my hair.

When you wash an octopus
the water becomes an octopus.

When you boil an octopus
the steam twists into tentacles.

When you cover the mirrors,
the octopi come alive.

When you crack open a window
don’t they all escape?

Samphire makes a long journey
from cephalopod to plant.

The stigmata in my hands--
shaped like baby octopuses.

How many times
have I died for my young?

How many limbs
have I regenerated?

How often have I used ink
in my own defence?

How much blue blood must spill
to save the world?

How many hearts do you need
to survive through our losses?

I could be out there catching trout or dodging jellyfish,
and I wish I was out there
beyond the three mile limit where the shoreline is just a wavy haze in the distance,
I'm wasting time and ink stuck here in the 'smoke'

Looking at myself, looking at myself in the mirror and
I need a haircut, shutting my eyes and there's more form for me to see, nothing's 'normal' and it doesn't have to be, but at times everything is so normal it stifles me and I have this need to break free,
it's the sea and the pull, the rushing of shingle down the beach, the dunes that nearly reach the bottom of my heart, the smell of samphire and the desire which overrides my common sense
and then the lights go out.