Song

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 of our mouths to make a sea,
moaned whales into being, and all the beauty of the deep

until the ocean was a siren song and irresistible.

Then the coldness of the water tore the air from our lungs
and the tide ripped us, tossed us into the white foam

where our hearts burst, and there was nothing left
but flotsam, and the grinding of pebbles at the water’s edge.

Beth Brooke

Beth Brooke is a retired teacher. She now lives in Dorset, close to the wonderful Jurassic Coast. Her debut collection is due to be published by Hedgehog Press next year.