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The sea could do this in its sleep, 
rewrite history with each wave, but keep 
its darkest secrets from us, those which run too deep. 

We stand alone among the rock pools 
watching the waves break afresh, script and scroll 
spread out across the sand, which is turning a shade of purple 

as the evening makes its first advance 
through the marram grass, spitting the difference 
with each blade. Along this fossil coast the slowest dance 

of all is being played out. My daughter, 
picking up a stick, troubles the rock pool’s water 
before looking down into its optic as if it were a mirror. 

What is it she sees 
beyond those sessile lives, the shy anemones 
which seem to blush and then withdraw? Such clarity 

is hard to bear. With child herself and older, 
let every god protect them when I am gone forever; 
let her not look up and see my face slowly clouding over.




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Tony Hill

Sun 25th Oct 2020 08:31

Glad you liked the poem, Philipos. Tony

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Sat 24th Oct 2020 20:00

Great places rock pools.

Enjoyed writing about one myself in the North once.

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