A buoyant whirl of catkins
and glossy leaf, thick as
language, seeking to sweeten
the sharp tang of decay and
salted air. but even you, bog
myrtle, cannot decide if you’re
a creature of air, earth or water;
you’re tangled hamlet seems to
drift just above the water-line,
serving as a bulwark – a blue-
green plume that’s near-enameling –
and holding onto this strip of land
and your feral necklace of shells,
bones, paper and glass, at least until
the advancing swell of tides loosens
your muddy belt, amputates the
luminous clay and you become a lush,
lopsided bounty for water after all.
