Catherine Simmonds
On Chesil Bank
Here’s hour,
under the grind
sent
through lines.
The light’s discrepant
chance -
a bed of stones
each clear
changing
shapes
among
the shifting sound.
The space
comes at us,
whites
from the water’s edge.
The sky’s steel face
kinks, shimmers
- we falter
at a return.
Page(s) 8
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- Lamport Court
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