ALT Rust, a poem by Margaret on poems.lorepunk.ai: I don't have pretty words for this but my house was built on a tip by Shit Creek, now buried underground. The culvert opens by the yacht-builders and disperses in Plymouth Sound. We bought her in the depths of lockdown, overgrown, with a cat living in the holey roof dining on squirrels. She was built in the shadow of Hitler. A bungalow with a shelter dug deep underneath and a fir tree three stories tall. When we moved in, you and I found a rusted old gate laid flat across the drive. Sunburst- perfect Art Deco. You took it into the workshop and blasted off the rust, which began immediately to reappear. Salt carries on the wind along with the horns of ships departing the dockyard. My love, we are in deep water blowing rust-breath past layers of whitewash. I am the gate burst wide open, the squirrel downed mid-leap. The chairs, wicker and iron, red-limned, the line between bolt and earth softened, flaking away.