oyster sonnet

by Issy Thompson

silently I feel the ligature
begin to flex its sartorial lines
each craggly piece is clamped around the oyster
each push and pull the tide's shifty designs

slanted glances captured in between the shards
of sunlight, broken shell crunched into mud.
dragging our hands in the water - junkyard
civilities - cause we both've spilt blood

the shocking stench of sweat and oil and sea
will bring us to our senses and the toil
it’s easier to kid on that we're free
watch shoals of tiny fish with skins of foil

grit: the pearl of knowing in another's eye
half submerged, one fathom from the seabed high