Publications

The Boy who walked into the sea

You travelled so far inland
you no longer heard her voice
ignored all her reminders.
The hiss of your salty blood
taste of your tears, cascade of your hair –
how could she make it clearer?

You no longer sensed her whispers
felt her throbbing need to absorb you
yet she has drawn you back to the shoreline
sure as tide-pull, hauled to account
for all the distance between then and now
let her wash away those yesterdays

she will percuss waves of soft sound magic
gently in your ears, tickling air and bubbles
piping if only, melting fire to ice
she’ll shower you with spindrift kisses
stop your mouth with gifts of liquid emeralds,
reclaim you as her own

Ruthie Starling

Ruthie Starling worked for many years as a psychotherapist.She lives in Shropshire as both writer and artist, where she writes with warmth, inspired by nature, family and mythology. Her belief in the unity of all living things underpins her work. Published by Emma Press, Fairacre Press, Three Drops, As Above, so Below. She tweets as @ruthiestarling

Photo credit @daiga_ellaby at http://www.unsplash.com

Busking on Broadstairs Beach

The night was liquid,
a sultry, heady brew
when we unlocked the music,
cool plains of sax
and smoky coils
of rhythm from an old guitar,
no rush when the song,
smooth as a dark river,
smooched the air.

Out across gold water
cruised by moon
and the whisky glow
of the promenade lights,
it streamed like sparks,
grazing sea now and then,
laidback, sighing.

From somewhere
the hurdy gurdy gabble
of a fairground organ
waddled into the night,
bumped into our busking,
made us turn up the volume
till an irate romeo chased us –
coitus interruptus-

sax and sex one summer night
on Broadstairs beach.

Lesley Quayle

Lesley Quayle is a widely published, prizewinning poet and a folk/blues singer, currently living in Dorset. Her poetry collection, Sessions, was published by Indigo dreams and her latest pamphlet, Black Bicycle, was published last year by 4Word Independent poetry press. She tweets @lesley_quayle

Photo credit @nihaldemirci at http://www.unsplash.com

Méduses

Some things the sea gives back to you;
Blue of the sky, the odd drowned thing;
And sometimes when it’s resting between storms
You can lean over the gunwale,
Peer down through a silence
That at first seems black
But is an endless absence,
With distant galaxies of jellyfish.

Dru Marland

Dru Marland used to work at sea on big ships but now lives quietly among the voles on the Kennet and Avon canal, drawing pictures. Her illustrated collection Drawn Chorus (an alphabet of birds) was published in 2007 by Gert Macky Books. Dru tweets @Dru_Marland.

Photo credit @arushee at http://www.unsplash.com

Vacation

Dorothy Anderson loved and feared the sea in equal measure. She whiled away long summer days in a striped chair, placed in the doorway of her candy-coloured beach hut.

Today, her pleasure had been derived from watching a family, the parents relaxing in deckchairs, the little girl building and decorating sandcastles, and the boy digging.

The tide was rushing in as they left, and Dorothy was in a hurry to get her feet wet, just up to her ankles – her early evening ritual.

When the family returned the next day, the deep, deep hole had gone. And so had Dorothy.

Helen Laycock

Helen Laycock, previously a lead writer at Visual Verse, features in several editions of The Best of CafeLit. Recently longlisted by Mslexia, pieces are showcased in Popshot, Poems for Grenfell, Full Moon and Foxglove, The Caterpillar, Cabinet of Heed, Reflex Fiction and Lucent Dreaming, whose inaugural flash competition she won. She tweets as @helen_laycock

https://helenlaycock.wixsite.com/helen-laycock

Photo credit @helloimnick at http://www.unsplash.com

Annabel

We pretend she’s a girl, teach her to read.
She goes to school, has human friends
but we know one day we’ll lose her to the sea.

We learn to be patient, sit through hours
of seal displays at parks and zoos, remember
that first time she called to them. How they called back.

People notice when we’re at the pool
that she never seems to surface for a breath,
is more at home submerged.

Her toys are seals and when we sew it’s seals.
I have to stitch a fur cape for the felt one. She eyes
the fabric, imagines how it feels as skin.

Hilary Robinson

Inspired by Hilary’s youngest granddaughter, Annabel.

Hilary Robinson, from Saddleworth, has a Poetry MA from Manchester Metropolitan University. She’s been published in journals including Strix, Riggwelter, Obsessed with Pipework, Poetry Birmingham, Morning Star and the Interpreter’s House. 12 of her poems were published in a joint book, ‘Some Mothers Do,’ in 2018 (Beautiful Dragons Press).

Photo credit @digitech at http://www.unsplash.com

REFUGEES

Escaping gunfire from the sea,
fear and blind panic drove them on
like any other refugees.
Without the loadstar of their lives –
away from the familiar –
they travelled unseen through the night
from far beyond the ocean’s swell.

Singing, they kept their spirits high,
they passed Black Rock and Castle Point
to swing into the broad Porthcuel…
Beyond moored boats with jangling sheets,
the sleeping Manor House at Place,
they lost their way and chose Porth Creek.

Into this elemental place
of mudflats, long abandoned boats,
they moved in on a changing tide.
Beneath the overhanging oaks
where brown stream narrows, up near Froe,
the tidal waters ebbed away.

Caught up in flotsam, debris, weed,
the party floundered in the creek
as channel water turned to shoals.
Poor gardeners raised the alarm –
as sun rose on the carnage there,
of those who travelled from the sea,
only a handful still survived.

Now mouths are stopped – their chant has gone
and eyes are blind to helping hands
as men humped bodies to the grass.
There’s tragedy, no respite won,
no refuge in this hostile land –
for those who’ve journeyed from so far
the sole lament is curlews’ song.

Patrick Osada

Previously published in How The Light Gets In ~ (Dempsey & Windle 2018)

In June 2008, a large pod of dolphins was discovered beached in the shallows of Porth Creek, Cornwall – 26 had died. It is believed that they had been panicked by explosions in Falmouth Bay during a naval exercise.

Patrick B. Osada recently retired as Reviews Editor for SOUTH Poetry Magazine. He has published six collections, How The Light Gets In was launched in June 2018. Patrick’s work has been broadcast on national and local radio and widely published in magazines, anthologies and on the internet.

http://www.poetry-patrickosada.co.uk

Photo credit @ https://www.cornwalllive.com/news/cornwall-news/cornwall-dolphins-first-native-english-951245