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“Like clay was the sand in my fingers, moulding into hooded, echoing figures. Past clay voices mixed with sea water, gurgling words of anger and blame. I now smear sand clay upon my dress, white linen heavy with new marks. I carry the harsh voices as I spin around and open my arms to the lighthouse. [New Clay Linen]” — Susan L. Marshall
Like clay was the sand in my fingers,
moulding into hooded, echoing figures.
Past clay voices mixed with sea water,
gurgling words of anger and blame.
I now smear sand clay upon my dress,
white linen heavy with new marks.
I carry the harsh voices as I spin around
and open my arms to the lighthouse.
[New Clay Linen]