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My PTSD isn't what it was, but it still bites me (briefly) on the arse sometimes.

Written in Broadstairs, looking out at the submerged tidal paddling pool.

Turn

Screen_shot_2017-12-05_at_08.50.24by Patrick Howse25 Jul 2015

A red and white pole
Marks the edge of rocks
Exposed at low tide.
I stand still,
Holding it,
Hugging it,
Pushing my toes into flint.

Waves come in,
Rising over feet,
Rising over knees and thighs,
Swirling round my loins,
Rising up,
Thumping my chest,
Slapping my face,

Touselling my hair
Then gripping it,
Insinuating suddenly
Nose and mouth and lungs,
Penetrating even brain,
Engulfing,
Washing away.