Hannah Rye + Emma Bartholomew

Bay at the Back of the Ocean

We left the trail somewhere
between the one-room school
and the drookit bay.
Tethered to the gales,
the gulls were puppets.
We trod shyly.
From the summit of the chiseled crags
we spied the shore,
drenched with seeking,
seeping loss.

Wind-shaped branches,
arms reaching.
The crested coast sliced
deep with sand and wind and silence.

Two street lamps light
this six-mile moorland.
Neither work today.

Emma Bartholomew