Category: Beth Brooke

At the place where the land ended, we stood, hands clasped, drawn by the salt spray, and found there was nothing we could do but whisper the ocean into existence. We let words pour out

Crane flies hang from the door lintel, dangle their cotton-thread legs in my face; they appear as if from nowhere, have secret business. They seem immune to the spiders’ webs strung out to trap them,

A thousand years from now they will open my mouth and my bones will sing the story of my life, how I was a traveller, a rider of sea and air a walker of dunes