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
Clouds of feathers light up the sky, downy rainbows of keratin that flicker in the sun-kissed breeze. Weighed down by the heavy gaze of our
Cascading from rocky peaks, you plunge into view, flowing like a fan into streams and lakes and lives. Fawning at your force we strive to
Greying mists once blocked out the sun, clouds of copper casting frosty shadows across cloaked and ancient skies. A false and deadly portent for the
Dawn breaks over the diminishing sound of forced retreat. A chorus constrained by the bare and callow noise that permeates our bandwidth. Concerned communities trace
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.
Flecks of gold and red shimmer over restless seas. Incandescent gatherings illuminating the horizon as you throw yourself to the mercies of the wind. Your
The Earth tries to sleep, casting off the shadows of a distant star beneath the tattered veil of greying night. Behind thinning eyelids the atmosphere
The scars of past assaults lie scattered on the shore. The force of every blow etched into the earth with the relentlessness of your approach;