Screen_shot_2017-12-05_at_08.50.24by Patrick Howse03 Feb 2016

Lumps of chalk lie jolted
from cliffs, tide-washed
and rounded by salt,

pitted till they crumble,
allowing adamant flint
to cut its way free;

I find a piece, stumpy
as a cut sapling log,
glass-black planes

shining glossy wet
in autumn sunshine.
This is a rock

to build walls from,
to hide behind,
to repel all attacks.

Slowly, away from its sea,
the shattered-mirror
facets cloud and fade.