Magnetic Tides
Surging through the spray, swelling hands cast salty nets through unseen lines. Stripes of shaded power that bulge and swing and sway. Shearing swathes of
"this is sixth form poetry, not Keats or Yeats"
Surging through the spray, swelling hands cast salty nets through unseen lines. Stripes of shaded power that bulge and swing and sway. Shearing swathes of
We scavenge the coastlines, in search of living, low-tech tools that carry within them the promise of our climate’s past and future tense. Geochemical proxies
With season’s end you topple to the ground, aching, broken limbs held aloft by briny hands that bare you proudly to their sunken home. Drifting.
Jutting from the salted froth your solitary canine flashes in the midnight sun, revealing wrinkled rivulets that labour under our insignia; ivory forget-me-nots of all
In the name of progress we pour your honeyed ichor down the jagged throats of our unquenchable machines, launching broken vessels to coax you from
A solar powered scalp slithers across the sea floor, surviving on the memories of meals consumed when you were whole. Your jettisoned corpse left to
An accidental echo on the line oscillates with the baritone of your misplaced song. Waves beneath waves traverse wires crossed with the rising beat of
Stony gardens of shifting light sway vibrantly beneath the waves; rainforests of the sea, whose motely splendour permeates still waters with a pale and delicate
Sailing by moonlight you wallow in the opulence of your oceanic abode. An illusion of permanence concealing the current that now bathes you in shameful
Emerging from a coral cocoon you drift towards the surface, feathery legs dancing beneath the waning light of a harvest moon. Perched beneath the waves