warms in the callow heat of spring.
As pebble to horizon cast,
by shallows’ nibbling watermark
I gaze the blue distance
to my island.
But think of yours:
its dazing sun an axe
cleaving forest to the shoreline.
Words skim the waves to where,
at higher tides, two oceans kiss
and turtles slip from sight
beyond the coral shelf.
Our scorched contrast of salty skin.
Sandbars emerge like chest
from a shirt-front, the frill of surf
their sibilant unbuttoning.
We hear the shingle's grating roar,
the same unsure job prospects
heaped up by undertow;
in dolly mixture beach huts and
one-stop only white cruise liners,
pleasure's unlike trappings.
Yet slaves to surge and spill
ever tides' cadence bends our will.
vii. & xi. 2014
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