By Nell Regan

Shanganagh Cliffs

The last great melt is scored through each
layer of these cliffs – these shelly drifts
below our home, cut clean by the knife
of the sea. I scan for sun bleached stone,
delivered from a desert long gone, find
a speckled piece of the Firth of Clyde
but my palm hungers for fossil in smooth
limestone, cave art from the sea bed –
a happenstance of leavings like the tottering
piles of pebbles that line this beach; markers
of this brief confinement, set in our own 2k
of deep time. I wake at 3am, my husband
grinds his teeth, the sign flashes Stay At Home
as I turn, dream the coast a giant jawbone.