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Lumps of shore smothered in sinewy grass,
rocks like couches of sphagnum moss,
curtained in draping wet weeds. Ocean scent fresh
caresses the Heron balancing, with Yogic concentration.
Ready to spear. Sky above her grey and heavy,
blackening slowly the sky west crooked.
Spitting Irish Sea blasts razor cold saline
swollen drops, makes ears whistle and numb.
Dark cold fluid swells, small lapping waves
that slowly munch, nibble and absorb:
liquid earth, beach grass and rocks.

English was invented by Englishmen. Language is a male construct.Me site

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The following comments are for "Silverdale"
by NascentPawn

"...the Heron balancing, with Yogic concentration." has to be my favorite line in this... another highly atmospheric piece, communicates a powerful sense of foreboding... I know that shore, I think.

( Posted by: AuldMiseryGuts [Member] On: November 28, 2006 )

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