Too many dresses
Stunted thorns slump east.
Three red calves stand on the ridge
rumps to the west wind.
Rabbit weary grass
faints at the clump of his boots.
In the house below
she’s folding dresses.
A thin surrender of smoke
waves like a torn flag.
By the time she leaves
he’s sodden to his white chest
and the fire has died.
The battle of Newcomb Hollow
I went at dawn to Newcomb Hollow,
a war reporter for breaking light.
To see the last-gasp darkness swallowed
down the gullet of a mackerel sky.
I was spied by periscoping seals,
popping through the barbed edge ocean;
commanding waves to raid and steal
in constant pillaging incursions.
Resisting them: a Marram band
defended the cold and cratered dunes,
resolute and still in that half land,
waiting for a wind borne call to move.
Later I wrote of the Kingdom of Whales,
every stanza a water-board of light.
Lying down I dreamed of buried shells
and silent seals watching me at night.
Marc is a poet and musician from Devon. He’s been published in numerous magazine and web sites including Ink, Sweat and Tears; Otter; Stride; The Broadsheet; The Guardian Webpages; The Poetry Society Website and in anthologies from Ravenshead, Forward, OWF and Sentinel Presses.