Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

Ocean Song at South Head I am born of the folk of the tropical coasts, salt-rimmed hands my inheritance. I trace the vestiges of webs between my fingers— folds printed with the pearlescent stripes of nautilus shells. My foremothers woke with lucent skins—sun dribbling...

Nigel King

      Aquamarine My compass – its needle set with a sliver of blue stone – spins and spins. Breath mists my snow goggles. I wipe them endlessly. Even in these thick seal-skin mitts my hands are frozen. I have been no place as still as this. As white....

Clare Bryden

      The long arc I seek justice and you hold a seashell to your ear hear oceans whispering limitless sssshhh history heaps sheering waves shattering across reefs sweeping shallow bays rearing breakers pound shelving beaches scatter shells with...

Gail Webb

      Something Missing He cuts. I lie still, teach myself to dream of St David’s Bay, seaweed strewn on incoming tides, surfers slice big waves in half. He butchers with hammer, saw. No nightmares, though he says it’s possible-you could wake in the...