Abercastell
In the bubbles of bladderwrack,
keeping seaweed afloat,
are bygone memories.
They don’t pop easily,
but, as the sun slips
down the back of the sea,
try making fire with a bunch
of salt-cracked woodsticks.
Chuck on dried bladderwrack.
When it’s popping bullets
out of the fire breathe in
a potpourri of the ocean:
the smell of wrecks, traders,
the stink of whalers, oil spills,
starfish, dogfish, jellyfish,
the breath of saints,
scents dragged
from the ocean floor
and kept
in these pockets of air
intense
sealed inside seaweed,
and now released hot
into this new century.