Shuggling Sodium Chloride

The river Tweed carved a hair 

-line fracture. 

She thread probes peat, needles the soil, pulling 
a fishtailing knot east as she fills out, until she’s with me,
groping at the sea slung horizon. 

The coastline perches above, curtain twitching through cloud,
keeping an eye as I step into the cheek, of the mouth of her,
dispersing Sycamore seeds as I go. 

Those miniature whale flukes disappear under the heel turn
of the tide, never getting to root.She empties herself of the vapes
that the kids with the pooh stick limbs had shoved down her throat. 

I sip the salty, caramelised air as she plows on, beyond the headland,
unsure of her shores, debris dripping off her dorsal tongue. 

Precariously sodden, my inundated body bobbles, buoy wobbles, topples,
as tears slip from my hagstone eyes.I find that my hands shake a little.
Their wrinkles, tributaries in which water shuggles. 

I’m jealous of the limpets, of how confident they are 

in their grip. I’m up to my hips in seal skin, 
And I wade in, and in, and there’s my fin.

Two Standing Stones Casting Spells Into Each Other

You shambles up and onto me, 
as if I’m amenable to unsolicited piggyback rides.
Not even a heads up to say brace yourself, 
only the vague sense of a premonition 
umming and ahhing someway off, and then 
I’m set upon, arms scarving my neck, 
thighs belting my waist, scuffed heels crossed 
just above my fluffed up belly button 

and we’re off, giddy-uping along
the Sand Martin dappled riverbank, your whip hand
flank slapping my initial reticence away, until 
I’m legging it, full pelt, head strong, head long. 

It’s not that I fall into fits of laughter. 
The giggles come up, inevitable 
as the peekaboo sun at dawn 

and I have to unsaddle you,
taking a fistful of your shirt sleeve 
as you earth yourself because 
I’m laughing so hard that my knees 
can’t be trusted. 

We prop each other up, like standing stones
cast together, like two spindrift spells 
circling to a stop. 

Even though I can barely stand, I want to be windhovering on
the mantle shelf breeze above us, so I can catch a glimpse of
the thing that usually perishes, but for us, has persisted, 

the soft chuckle of friends 
who have never drunkenly kissed.