Runcible Spoon

poetry and prose webzine

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You can hear the stream tickle

the rocks. You meant trickle

but I prefer your word and run my nail up


the bumps of your spine –

making your shoulders ripple.

Here the stream runs through the beach,


cutting the sand and spreading her legs –

letting salt seep in. It’s low tide,

the orange-brown beach is glossed


by water like a photo

of my childhood. I help

as you try to flood a hole


almost surprised when the sand swallows

every bucketful of sea.

To the north – the landscape rewinds:


black rock tumbles up

to gorse; roots pull earth

back to purple moor.