Day Eight: Beachcombing

-All photos by Annest Gwilym

Whelk Shell

Shells hold secrets
folded in the whorls,
where the creature hid.

The open mouth
sings like the tide,
or the vastness of space,
the emptiness between stars.

As a child they looked like
ice cream cones
or fairytale turrets.

Older, like bones
scattered on the beach,
bleached and crumbling
slowly into sand.

Held to the ear I hear
the rushing blood and heartbeat
of a living being.

© Annest Gwilym

BEACHCOMBING 

The sea will tell a tale if you place an ear to a shell.
Her tidal treasures softly wash, gift-wrapped in weed.
I think the tale will be Lord of the Flies;
it shall end in Deliverance.

A celtic knot scratched in the sand. Art.
Washed away at the end of the day.
That this is all ephemera –
is what the artist is trying to say.

Fire,
tinder and a spark juxtaposed,
The fire always burns,
it’s supposed.

Often it doesn’t – the spark fails to catch or tinder burns away,
small twigs exhaust before larger ones ignite,
It’s too damp; too windy,
cold hands tremble with malnutrition ;
or fear.

But when it catches and flares,
twigs crackle, logs smoulder,
a rose like a sunset blooms;
the feeling is incredible.

Being primal in the wilderness,
sharpening a skewer-stake.
Everything we need must found
or we’ll have to make.

I am the first on Newmania.
Walking a pacific island’s deserted shore,
collecting coconut husks, smooth glass,
sun-dried bits of crate.

Survival has four pillars. Shelter. Fire. Water. Food.
A fifth now – threat.
The other contestants arrive by speedboat soon;
Wannabe pop star, internet influencer, boob-job, ex-footballer.

It’s not a reality show,
we’ve been kidnapped by evil people :
‘The one who survives the Island,

-John Wolf 31st July 2021.

-All photos by Sarah Louise Wheeler

The Marine Sonnets:

Beachcomber

Gale force Eight or more with an Easterly
throws things on my shores, material drifts
on my strongest waves and currents, firmly
North to South. Comb me as my gales desist

start to subside or veer West. See patches
of weed and black coal amongst my rocks.
Delve into huge feet thick seaweed masses
Find rare ,warm Baltic amber in same spots

as coal and Whitby jet. Prove real amber
sandpaper it and smell Pine tree resin.
My fossils, bullet shaped Belemnites are
with curled Ammonites released from within.

Don’t get caught by my rising tide, falling
cliffs. Every find, a story calling.

-Paul Brookes

Bios And Links