Sally Douglas





Call me Ishmael, he said.

The name had never mattered.
It was the immediacy of it all,
creeping through the mouseness of night.
Hours to go till light would strain
the seams of other people’s sleep.

The heels were high, and clacked like
tongues. So I swung them from my fingers
and the pavement
cut my feet.

But down at the seafront, where
blank kiosks slept,
and the flat sands glimmered just beyond eyes,
I dropped the shoes
and let him lick the salt from my skin.




Sally Douglas lives in Devon, UK. She has been published in various journals, including The Rialto, Ambit and Envoi. Her collection Candling the Eggs is published by Cinnamon Press. She blogs very intermittently at where a selection of her poetry, including extracts from the book, can be found.

Previously published in Candling the Eggs, Cinnamon Press, 2011.

Comments are closed.