Called up the sea | from where it slept |     | And the stones were drawn slowly back and forth | foam tendrils | back and forth | and the beach grew and breathed | and sighed and | the moon crunched in its orbit and ground round | on its axis |      | the rabbits fled across the field |      | Commuters | felt the train draw on power |     | The seeds of eyes | lay dormant but were sown |      | Cold waves | smoothed the pebbles | and the pebbles’ pelts | were slicked down |      | And the story’s black | seed | was carried a long way | by gulls, by trucks, by rumours |     | yes, by lovers, because there will be romance |     | Caught | in a niche of dirt | between two gutters |      | put out its trembling ghost of roots |      | white roots, the colour of oblivion |      | And it became a real meeting | and when their skins flowed | over each other | they didn’t notice | the sea had woken

They breathed and grew | coastlines | odd shoes | found in the street |      | They were full of the most generous rubbish | mounds of it grew | over the years | collecting flowers and toxins |      | Despite the staggering assertions | of the sun | they often lied | knowingly | not great lies, but small | facile lies | to ease their days |     | who doesn’t? |     | In the morning, they rolled the moon out of their bed | and brushed its cool dust from their bodies |      | On the shore | of a distant inlet | where the waters | were the colour of de-silvering mirrors | for our purposes |      | their sighs |      | entered |      | and in the sides of smooth, rolled pebbles | eyes opened | and seeing | and blindness | began…


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

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