Thermocline
Words cross the page without disturbing it — bright minnows, lures, perfectly aligned.
Margins balanced, breaks clean, each syllable set in place. Nothing holds.
Not thunder but weather turning, closing in. First the pressure: a phrase that startles, one sound returning changed.
Then the music tightens, snags, coils, sways like bladderwrack.
A pull of slow salt drift, down, past the last light, into the cold press.
The featured image includes: J.M.W. Turner — Snow Storm – Steam-Boat off a Harbour’s Mouth (1842); Mark Rothko, No. 61 (Rust and Blue) 1953 ; and Winslow Homer, Early Morning After a Storm at Sea, 1900–1903
House I really like this piece – the intoxicating, slightly dangerous pull of the writing process itself. A poem can start as something controlled, only to drag you down into somewhere much deeper and darker 🙌