His scrambled hair like bramble shoots, weaved globs of blackberry bruised that
dripped down to swim in cheeks that knew too much of purple tones.
I could smell him in the petrichor, diluting juice, now watercolour too
weak to turn any eye. He moved like a tide without knowing what caused
the queasy pull. I pushed a boat out to him and signalled to the harbour.
He looked up and spat clots before gifting his milk teeth to the water.
Charlotte Begg is a poet and artist from the Isle of Wight, UK. She has had various poems published by The Interpreter's House, The Yorkshire Review, Riggwelter Press and more. When she is not writing or painting her four children and job as a library assistant fill her time.