Licorice legs and a walnut shell. You could be a crab, tired of the grainy shore, the glucose whirl of a gluey sea.
Fantasy’s stamp is upon this sky From the cloud dust remains of a quartet of ghosts, they grow, gather pace on the carousel,
Back Home Mumbles greets, with pop-to-shop chatter, the ping of welcome, the smell of new, Welsh crafted gifts and the slow-down of browse.Home is in the accent, in the dragon on...
My hands are imagining you, the cool pale, your shoulders, like hawk wing, I sculpt,
The aunts never shaved their legs. They rolled up their trousers and ran into the sea.
When you wake with petals strewn at your inner imaginings, you try to live up to the sweet start,
It's a mystery, how the mind leaps from primitive sound to intricate, webbed sentence,
This moss is her island, its dewy green . . .
When the bough breaks and my oak tree heart is joined by an echo,