Wasteland
The lochs a necklace of sea-bags,
glittering in the sun like a shove-penny win.
My brow a gathering of stormy clouds.
The thrush sings of long summer days and late sunsets
warming flat stones bathing in the light.
My mouth a nest of thistles.
Sleeping giant hills, with bellies of purple
lie on their backs, solid as time.
My fingers cold spears of kelp.
The sky a sea of foamy breakers,
its sunny torch finding each blade of grass.
My heart a fist of moss.
by Angela Drinnan
More About Angela
Originally from Edinburgh, Angela Drinnan now lives in London. She works as a psychologist in the NHS and is about to start training to become a psychotherapist. Angela writes poetry in her spare time. She was shortlisted in last year's Chapter One Promotions competition, and this is her first prize for writing.