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Frankie Locke

I speak of running fluent tides
Filling bubbling pools with swirling rings,
Of cobalt, thick, between layered layering.  

 

Tales of sea washed pebbles, ice smooth, ice grey,  
Echo each ripple in circular sequence.
Forms forming fine linear rings fall into concave ceramic shallows. Circumfluent undulations break into voids,

 

Fracture into droplets.  

I tell of tumbling tides, rolling waves,

Pulling currents and ebbing seas

Of clay formed popples.

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