Beth Brooke – Gutweed
​
Matted clusters
mark the high point of the tide,
sand flies crawl over the mass of fronds,
probe, colonise its possibilities.
My shadow blocks
their sun and they rise up, settle
on my arms, my legs,
stick, like stinging grains of grit
flung by the wind.
I squat beside the raft of brilliant green,
run my fingers through the tangle of it,
inhale the smell of sea, salt, something other.
Mesmerised, I watch the gutweed seethe,
the crabs emerge.
Beth Brooke is a retired teacher. She was born in the Middle East but now lives in Dorset. Her debut collection, A Landscape With Birds will be published later this year by Hedgehog Poetry Press. She Tweets as @BethBrooke8.
Artwork: Nessie by Helen Gwyn Jones
Helen Gwyn Jones started recording her world at the age of 8 when she bought a Brownie camera from her sister, something which has become a lifelong passion. A collector of the past (hers and other people’s) she likes nothing better than muted images of imperfection. May be found poring over Welsh grammar books when not photographing drains or going into raptures over rust. Recently published at Acropolis, Paddler Press, Pareidolia Literary, Blink Ink, Hecate, Moss Puppy, The Levatio, Camas, Storyteller’s Refrain, Full House Literary, Subliminal. Can be found online @helengwynjones