Mudlark No. 63 (2017)

	              and retreat of a grey wave. Headless dogfish turns, 
					                     tail to shore, 

	         disappeared head points back to sea. End-of-Days 
			          on everyone’s lips, 

				                         but no one can say it. Cold foam 
	slides off grey skin. A man up the beach 
                              sings and sings against the wind, voice breaking,

		  then screams. And screams. Screams 
					           echo off shuttered hotel windows 
			                 across Oystermouth Road, become a conduit 

to the dead (the dead 
          that keep moving further and further away). What’s not-there
		                    become all there is: 
						                   Phantom pain. Cloud shadow 

	                        chases side-winding sand-dust east. 

Christien Gholson  | Tidal Flats 4
Contents | Mudlark No. 63 (2017)