How easily she leaves the house;

The windows glow amber on the cliff top.

On the beach she palm-cradles pebbles;
[not the imagined :chink: but something altogether more]
tumbling fistfuls watch and wait.

She is pieced together: some other limbs
hinged from some other spinestack,
a rickety puppet performing to fog

whose paleness blows in across the salt marsh;
a brackish and cloaking relief, softly
cloaking her powdering bones, her blunted mind.

Seaweeds wrap skirts round her hips,
round her silver-lined belly,
tightly binding her heavy hands.

The oystercatcher sieves memories from salty shallows.
An SOS lined neatly in stones
and a sea so flat and wide as to still her blood.


~ by Beeskiffle on April 22, 2012.

2 Responses to “How easily she leaves the house;”

  1. I like this one, Ebby! A lot of the lines play on the tongue like ” a rickety puppet performing to fog”. I enjoyed the read!

  2. This is achingly elemental, that SOS a silent scream …

    Maybe i’m wrong but i took it as “she” being the oystercatcher?

    I love your word-gems too, like “spinestack” … there’s something unutterably disconnected about this wild scene; i think you’ve got closest to that sense of alone-ness than anyone i’ve read recently

    and always, the music in your rhythm that balances/counterpoints …

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