Poems

Sharon Foulkes: ‘Grit’

Grit Dehydrated sea-spit, All things come down to it, in the end: The fire-forged mountain, root-riven, wind-whisked, The storm-sweepings of battlefields and cities, Boulders, galleons and bones, All ground down; Cuttlefish-scrimshaw and crag-slivers, Mother-of-pearl’s broken crockery, All swell-tossed, all tide-washed. We forget all that. It’s our launching-strip into glorious summer days, A silvery canvas for the dance-steps of lovers, A dawn-fresh slate, edged with tear-tanged lace. Embrace what the delving child-self knows: These are priceless gems that stick between your toes. Sharon Foulkes

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