Lydia Fulleylove


isle of wight beach
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poet & writer




The Boy in the Icehouse

Poems & extracts from Estuary
Two Ravens Press, October 2014

9 February

In the Winter Barn

At 81, Malcolm climbed the oak tree

30 December

By the broken jetty

seaweed on pebbles


Start where the path
keels over the edge, slants down
to the buried road. Follow
the track that twists away, until

this no man's path that's luring you
breaks free of dark, skips
across a scud of boulders, then grass,
pimpernels and traveller's joy.

Above, the shift-slip-slide begins,
the ruck and heal of open wounds,
the silver bones of a dead tree,
Below you, the red beach,

Rocken End. And look - a man.
You'll make out his red shirt -
see? He's tanned, brown-red,
he might be made from sand.

He stands on the shelf of
shingle above the surf.
He casts a line. Watch him.
Kneel on the cracked earth

by the slither of stones.
Listen: the thin brown line
of a bee, the skelter of a stream,
the uncoiling, coiling sea.

Lydia Fulleylove