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Piles Of Apples; Freediving by Siobhan Farrell

Piles of apples

The afternoon yawns


hot white sand,

whooshes of waves,

freckled skin peeking

out from a tight bikini,

sickeningly sweet

coconut sun screen,

fading scatters of sunlight.

but the sky has a new hue

of loneliness

stories trail off, words become

lost and confused.

If you look carefully,

you can see where shadows

have carved new patterns

into seashells,

swimmers tread water without

knowing why, their faces

look up with longing

to where pale

clouds wash the sky

still decay has its own


casts its own perfect light.

A feast of wabi sabi,

attuned to transience,

life in between.

like a pile

of over-ripe apples,

each season,

the same

yet so unlike

the one before it.

savour the petals

of a season’s flowers.

as each one’s scent

flows gently

into the long and peaceful night.


Why try to swim

without water?

nothing will keep you afloat.

under you, a murky

bottom, it’s impossible

to rise through


strands of algae

It’s like pacing back and forth

on a slimy beach scattered

with crayfish, crabs,

waiting for the high tide,

to carry you out to sea.

Just plunge into icy blue

swing your arms wild

slide jelly-like

through that deep hum of space

shedding layers of skin as you

dive deeper and further

away from shore.


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