Bridge
Fat land, moss wadded, pushes
against my feet, carrying me
to the bridge; held in the scent
of warm brine and red fescue.
Swaddled by wind fingers, I lean
over the stone span, beguiled
by silver motion beneath
wave distorted surface – flowing
between aviary islands – notched
scales in teeming murmuration.
A bridled guillemot skims
the liquid veneer until
the inevitable spill
breaks its argent tension.
Somnolent scales separate
in a myoclonic dive for survival.
Recent Comments
 | Maggie on Dudley and Eunice |
 | Rockall Mugs | Will… on It’s Pissing Down On… |
| Peak 3 (Stillborn) |… on Alderley Edge |
 | erroneouschoices on Brittle (for Greg) |
 | hana on Succotash |
Will Vigar 
Recent Comments