Beached

Mist. Unseen seagulls cry,

echoless. Steel ropes rattle,

masts bobbled by turning tide.

Grey figures on grey shore

shuffle through sand, strewn

with grey seaweed. Stray dog

snuffles for its salty secrets.

Far-off foghorn fractures

thoughts opaque as the day.

The strand still feels golden

between toes, washed

by opaline crystal waves.

Can you see, says she,

is there a way? Eyes intense,

piercing. No, I reply, no

future. She turns away, I stare

as she fades from view. Gloom.

◄ Conversation With My Nine-Year-Old Self

Car Crash ►

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