At school, there was a girl who spoke
oceans – salt-crusted words poured
out of her like a mother’s waters breaking.
We surfed on her speech
as it crested out of gappy teeth;
that classroom mermaid spun stories for fun, flipping
weekends over to find nose scrapes with danger
glittering on the other side. We let her
imagination’s word-hoard lick us clean
and set our bellies at ease.
Now twelve years later,
and I see her in Sainsbury’s, vacuously
presenting herself to the jams and spreads.
She wears a blunt-lipped resting face
like a dam – a shudder of water sluicing
over her adult edges.
I feel as though I am watching
a brink, a surgery, a subtle implosion –
barely breathing as the easy peelers
inch out of her palm’s hug, the red, plasticky
fishnets snagging like a stutter.
There are no oceans now.
She leans her gaze to the floor
as the satsumas plummet down
to the speckled lino, and stoops to recover them,
hinging at the hips, while a white, sinewy
arm coils around her back pockets, saying,
come on, baby.

—Published 12th of November 2025

About Florence Hall

Florence is a graduate from the University of Oxford, currently living in the Yorkshire Dales where she grew up. Florence enjoys seeking out nature, art, people, and places as inspiration for her poetry. Florence has recently started a Substack, which can be found here. 

Read more by Florence Hall here