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by hana wilde

when you were a seal, your belly

reflected in the water, a harvest moon

skin split with silver,

you moved quietly

below without a sound, down

to where small pebbles rolled

spinning lines of light behind you,


to the hollow forests

into dusk, going deeper -

and at the intertidal

the place of always change

I searched for my skin,

I called you from the shore.

the tide uncurled

showed me empty hands.


Hana Wilde is a writer and visual artist from Pembrokeshire, living on the Isle of Mull. Her work has appeared in Northwords Now, the Arts Territory Exchange and The Learned Pig. She is working on her first poetry collection.


Image by Bree Anne
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