Oubliette
I. Sedimentary
Before the oubliette took root in me,
there was only ocean.
Salt. Pressure. Dark.
Trilobites scuttled through prehistory,
belemnites spiralled in slow surrender,
crinoids flared like saline stars.
Graptolites—inked ghosts of collapse—
etched the
A Dress of Salt
You followed me like drought—
your mouth split at the corners,
your eyes dry with need.
You said nothing,
but your silence tugged
at the hem of my mercy.
I mistook you for longing.
I mistook you for a wound that wanted tending.
You were thirst.
You were hollow.
Fleur Du Sel : Persephone's Crown
I. The Currents of Forgetfulness
Why did they hide this shore from you—
the Thames’ edge, where dolls sink
into reeds, flotsam of the dead?
You knew the ferryman, the coins,
but not the tidal pull, the silted hush
that swallows names.
II.
Looking forward to your video on Hen Harriers Alex. Saw a juvenile Marsh Harrier whilst walking Shorne Marshes; good to know they've managed to breed successfully this year.
Get some good rest m8y - we need you for this fight to save our precious wildlife.
During the Third Mithridatic War, bees feeding on laurel, produced a toxic honey used to poison the Roman legions of Pompey the Great.
Laurel in the Honey
That ember of falling stars—
still glowing, unseen.
Possessing.
Preserving.
A genizah of the night he embalmed in amber,
a
Fleur du Sel
(Persephone’s Crown)
Why do you think they kept this hidden from you?
You knew of the boat, the ferryman, the need for coins—
Did you never wonder about the currents,
the eddies, the tidal streams?
These are the waters of forgetfulness.
Where the dead and the dead