LizMacwhirter poetry​ To an oystercatcher found at low tide /* Add style rules here */   The sea left you lying as if mid-flight. Quill wings lifted to catch a last breeze, one leg hitched high, gut-red beak poised to nip the sea and, trailing from your skull a wimple of bootlace-seaweed. Once, frilled with … Continue reading Liz MacWhirter