Poetry

Lyme Regis

On Lyme beach the sculptor balances stone on stone.
They seem to float.
Gull-white and smooth, or grey, sea-pocked.
Here the curve of an ammonite.

I don't know how he does it, you say.
Is it trick or glue or wire?

These stones are not small.
A two-arm hug hefts them into place.
Fingertips search and coax and search again,
to find the point of weightlessness.

When it is right, let go - step back.
The stones hang still,
poised,
improbable as flight.

Jenny Donnison