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All poetry below are extracts from the full poem, unless specified.

A new poem will be added each month.


….. Heather-cushioned, white-walled houses hunker down, eyes tight shut, banked into sea-salted hillsides; a story behind every door. Red geraniums, weather-petalled paint; the art of driftwood, set against damp walls. the rush of tea-coloured bogwash, the hush, hush, hush of the shore into the ear of the Bay. We are defined; by the pull of the moon the colour of our sun the length of the journey, by the shape of this, our resting place. Patricia Morris



The backbone of the Bay has broken along its fault line emptied of marrow; the sandbank that lay, aeons deep, split from within. The Five Finger Strand is overwhelmed; the beach raped overnight sand torn from her body, ripped away her skeletal form laid bare, ugly wounds revealed little anemones float like emptied foetal sacs in sulphate pools. Hidden until now, by soft golden grains, what lay beneath has surfaced; pebbles, shell, shale, rusted blocks of tanker, debris ripped from the ocean bed then thrown at the shore. Patricia Morris


It will be a soft-shaped day a morning, or an afternoon, everything and everyone barge-paced molten heavy with heat. Branches of gold-leaf set into concrete will wave offer shelter sunshine and shadow hidden in every plane and line of you. A short-legged dog will walk past, cock, sniff the air, perfumed by coffee canals mimosa, my wanting, and you; Dream-maker Love-maker Beggar-man Thief Patricia Morris

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