The
Cliff
(after Anselm Kiefer)
I make a lexicon of things that can be white
linen
lace sea foam face
but these small
dresses nightshirts
doll-sized robes
are spattered grey and maculate
stone ghosts of birds snagged on a
wall of ash
I wonder how they were stitched
smock
shirr pick cross feather
but it’s impossible to tell
their seams have rotted in the spray
I think how
they once were cut from patterns
facing yoke placket pocket welt
but the waves have flung this flock of empty children
against a squalling bluff
all memory of making has been lost
Above the cliff
the sky is cracked like mud
I make a lexicon of things that are unravelled
Sally Douglas
'The Cliff' was a prizewinner in the 2015 Exeter Poetry Festival Competition, and was originally published in the Festival pamphlet, Threads.
