Posted by: Ross Gardner | September 30, 2018

Shingle

Shingle

My hands are the sea, dug deep

To feel garnered warmth

And the waves clawing at the beach.

Wringing songs from the stones,

Cajoling and coercive,

Gathering voices towards a tumult

Only to recede unfulfilled

In a softly sibilant hush.

The shingle wins and the shingle losses

And small things pick up the pieces.

Chesil beach and The Fleet (scaled)

Chesil Beach, Dorset.


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