POEM TITLE Until Draped
POEM and so sits beach hut on blue morning
leaning out into the day
scooping me from the bay all grassy hair as
some long-asleep algae
claws clicking, calling
the Pot at Blackness hums.
Oh the lighthouse, i call
to my dripping companions
inching nearer, further
from deep below
the throbbing windows beat
themselves a hundred feet to bulge
and so lift our spirits, creaking
awake and stretching
for cool stone and the whispering door, to wait
between lives, drying
until draped.
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