Back at the house its
Stoneyes blink   nod
to the crook of the road
to the cliffway
I hoped for more salt
On fingers   it reels heady
Turftracks and peonies buffeted
And blasted   as seen through bubbled glass
You reach over adjust my dress
Adjust the yellow flowers on my dress   this
Is what we’ve held on for
At long drawn last
Through losing our footings and tongues
To seamonsters licking their knives
In small-toothed surf
Something has eroded   left
This is at last a kind of tenderness.

Helen McClory

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