Within my rooted being lies a box of green,lined with dewy moss to quench and revive,clasped onto my sea-shell collection.A self-portrait, the stones I carvedby the sea with salt in its veins,embryonic, in a cosmic womb,its dark edges are still dissolving.Wrapped around a framework of bonesoverflowing with ragtag paraphernaliaof my stumbled tumbled dreams,a hazy recollection […]
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writing in north norfolk 