The Sea
Walking down the street,
I empty my pockets
of the sea I was looking
after for you. Mussels
come tumbling first,
cracking open their castanet
shells on the pavement.
Acres of seaweed and oysters.
Taking a deep breath,
I pour saltwater into the middle
of the road. Islands of people
and cars bob in the newly created sea.
Somewhere amongst this
is an old trawler. You are inside,
sending signals back to a lighthouse
forgotten in a trouser pocket

Landing on a photograph
of my father, it must have thought
the bulb of his scalp was a source
of light; just as for years I thought
the transmissions from his heart
were love.

After the Drought

The first rain
brought bodies of dead
crickets to the surface,
hollow and golden like spent
bullets, exposed the wires
we had cut to remove
ourselves from the world
lurking past the eucalyptus
trees, made the telephone
poles come closer,
eager to understand how
we could turn words
and those that carried them
into stone.   

© Christian Ward

Bio: Christian is a 28-year-old London based writer currently moonlighting as a freelance journalist. He recently graduated from Roehampton University, London, with a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing and is hoping to start an M.A. in Creative Writing next year. His chapbook, The Sea can be found at