Cliffs sprung with moorland
jagged slate underskirts
birds sit watching, waiting
morvran hang oily wings
beaks stark statements
sand a swirl of shadows
toes in snaking retreat.
Ocean a rubble of pilchards
the shoal slating
grey waves slipperack
the air harbours wind and salt scents.
Anna Chorlton
Field of Trees I’m away to the wood she shows off her green; Horse Chestnut offers fingers gloved in lime, Beech and Ash flutter a thousand butterflies, Oak reveals just a glimpse of her gown, Hawthorn clasps blossom, tight buds of May, Bluebell opens her arc petal by petal, her song arising a haze of eyes.
