The tide drags itself out, exposing the ragged underbelly, the underneath and bones of it. The breathe of the tide in my ear, your words lost to the wind, big arms, lost conversations. The flow of each other from different directions, the taste of difference on the tongue. A choppy sea, grey and churning and endless. We walk the edge of an arc coming full circle with ourselves, back to where we started, the holiday house on the hill. Weaving ourselves into its weft, trying to leave ourselves at home and begin again. Here on a cliff with the crumble of rocks below and tiny yellow flowers peeking through the cracks.

Alison Sommerville

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