Breathing Samphire

The wind‐cut is pure
north‐easterly.
My hardened scales chiselled off,
broken into flakes of chaff,
blustered into sky.

At last, I've discarded your curse,
your poisoned shackles.

The evening sun at Porthclais
highlights a cottage
rented for the summer.
A chapter has started ‐
no mistakes this time