11.

		        Hazy sun. Can’t see the marina from Black Pill. 
                                                                        But there’s blue sky above.

		 Boys on the sand 
			    down by the uni, playing rugby. Girls sit close 
           to a grill, nearby; talking, pretending to watch. Behind me, bees 
     dive into yellow flowers,	
		                        rears bobbing, bodies of yellow pollen.

	A woman with a red hat dips her hand inside a black bag, tosses 
					                             crumbs left, right, eyes straight ahead. 
		Behind her, a frenzy of gulls. Two batter each other 
						                          for the same crumb: desire,
the opening, hole that engulfs the entire strand: gull beak, bee wing, 
							                       fish gill, human hand...
	
	      She walks past two men digging for bait, stops, turns, scatters 
			      more crumbs at her feet. White wings, joyous shrieks.
	  
	      Nightfall:

		     light house at Mumbles Head through evening fog:      
    four flashes...count twelve slowly in the darkness...then another four flashes.
  
								                 West wind cold. 

       Streetlight glistens on wet sand. Thousands of tiny piles, shadows 
								                             in the gleam, 
	       where lugworms slid shit up from their holes: 

							                    a burrow as body. Hole 
					                                          that makes itself?
 
	                What the fuck does that even mean?
  
           Pull of water, pull of moon, flash in the eye, mysterious holes. 
							                        What is this body?

Christien Gholson  | Tidal Flats 12
Contents | Mudlark No. 63 (2017)