beach

After sun

We pack our paperbacks away,

wet towels and costumes too.

The sky is now the colour

of the seals we watched

this morning in the bay.

 

The weather is broken:

jacketed we huddle,

rockpooled in silence,

rueing the change.

Dark coins pit the sand.

 

If we sit here long enough

we’ll be washed away.

The gulls know what is coming

and fly inland.

(This poem appeared in The Journal #40)

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