Broken shells crunched under my callous feet skin worn, an old tyre. The sand swelled, greedy for each step swallowing, a reptile. The sea drowned the foot holes the foaming scum welded.
Marguerite Daises held tight, amongst the ivy and creepers. Wet, wood stung our noses. Cindered dolls, eyes blackened, broken faces aged with soot. Our patchwork quilt, chewed at the edge.
Brown eyes, so loud over the wind; voice so quiet. He moved in silence. Poplars waved, screaming with joy. I strained to hear. He paused, blackberry bruised wood. A game.
Heavy earth on my shoulders, like the tide. A soft cave was my home, like Play Dough. My hands were broad and curved, like a shovel. I created a network of tunnels, like veins.
Sunlight poured into the cave, teasing the stream that stumbled over rocks. Curved trees scowled, their skin like a map, the ivy like roads. Six old drains lined the wall,