A poem I performed at a Literature Wales event today in Neath. Happy St Davids day.
Naked feet shooting pains of devout guilt
we grind the sacrosanct barnacle furze
only in places. Bearing no burrs,
over a fathom deep, more beautiful gilt,
damson dark, we mash. Pale bodies so spilt
we see moonlight shot the interiors;
clamps, grow on grow kept them from predators.
We strip timid so many ways to tilt.
Bewildering seizures of thrill wake us,
cut scalpel clean,
painless from everything,
I rise to what a full moon uncovers,
rip from the water-line