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 A. Drinnan
More about A. Drinnan
Originally from Edinburgh, A. Drinnan now lives in London and 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.