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Hunger

by Jane Monson©

She moves in over the land, picks a pebble from her last tide-line and swallows it whole. The earth stirs in grains. Wood baked light from a fire is siphoned from a shallow pit. High on the sand-bank, an abandoned boat begins to expand – in a constant state of drying out, the blue paint splinters in the wind. The dye unfurls over the body, lifts off the wood in little hands. They beg towards the ocean. Stones are varnished with the slide of each wave; nothing dries before the next onslaught. The colours have a sound, of breath held in anticipation. Gulls puncture the air. Trees on the cliff begin to wrench up their roots – the branches tighten over the nests and the birds begin to shriek as the leaves fasten their wings. Sap glues over the bones and the birds begin to slow their fight. Below the land is disappearing; the beach pulled towards the sea like a rug heavy with objects. The effect is of a child’s magic board, written on, pulled, then gone; written on, pulled, then gone.
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