Phyllis Webb in Sunday Water: Thirteen Anti Ghazals invites the reader to
Hear the atoms ambling, the genes a-tick
in grandfather’s clock, in the old bones of beach.
driftweed is perhaps what the beach washes up but wave upon rushing wave yields the homophony of beech, the tree, the grandfatherly tree, an appropriate chronometer planted for generations to ponder perhaps imagine the felled timber be lost at sea, driftwood to driftweed indeed.
And so for day 109