Day Eighteen – sound of home

I won’t bleat on about what’s happening to my head at the moment, but I managed to let everything overwhelm me enough to stop me being creative. This morning I have decided to try and push on through it all, so turned back to the last poem/day I missed. I only remember a few particular Sussex words, so instead I opted for images and things that shaped my childhood.



We spoke the language of the sea,
Flint tongues sparking syllables
into fire: sprat, pout, mullet
all singed our lips,

shingle-scoured our souls.
Strange words skulked,
inside our dark mouths,
hid from the moon
before finally,
freed by a spring tide
they spilt, unchecked,
from our
silver-split tongues.


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