16. 

	              A purple ribbon, hangs from a broken branch at the tide line, 
                                         sings in the wind. A student on the beach: 
							       “Contemplate this —    
	                for every grain of sand here, there’s a billion planets.” 
							
	          Plastic bag, wet, transparent, 
				     covers the spongy old knot of an ancient trunk 
                on the west side of Bryn Mill pipe — a desecration.
			                                           I grasp the plastic and pull 
								                     and pull —
	               
                                                                      hands that knocked stone from stone,
		   percussion-flakes mimicking
	    sea-drum, heart-drum, a crow drumming a shell 
					against stone, Olduvai Gorge, Tanzania, panoply 
	           of stars above, 
		               furnace where finger, eye, and desire
								                were made —

and couldn’t move the fucking bag because it was filled with too much sand.

  On my way home, bloke with a hood, in front of Pantygwydr Baptist Church, 
			     asks for a light. I pull a lighter I found in the sand 
	 from my pack, flick it. 
				                             Trembling hands reach out, 
	   a shaky cigarette in fine rain. 

							     He shivers. 

					  “They say the earth’s getting warmer... 
	            global warming’s a hoax! 
				      Someone’s having a laugh.”

Christien Gholson  | Tidal Flats 17
Contents | Mudlark No. 63 (2017)