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In the bubbles of bladderwrack

giving buoyancy to seaweed

are memories

They donít pop easily.

But if, just as the sun

is slipping down the back of the sea,

I make fire with a bunch of salt-cracked

woodsticks and

chuck on some dried bladderwrack;

when itís popping like bullets

I can breathe them in.


Theyíre not always mine.

Theyíre blended

like a memory pot pourri

an amalgam of the sea - dredged.

Wrecks, traders, saints,

an incoherent, intangible

mass of smells.

Pockets of sensation

all the more intense for having

been sealed inside seaweed

and then released hot

like breath whispering.