Herded down to the beach at ten
on a winter's morning
in thin white gym shorts as if our volition
came from his barking.
He claimed to have been a marine
and we were terrified,
with anaesthetised flesh
on the oily beach
strewn with bladder wrack
like something coughed up foul and green
and a pill box
full of trash and graffiti;
concrete obstacles from the war
and out there, cargo ships
would glide over the cold grey sea
bound for warmer shores.
Dream Catcher. Summer 2021. Editor Hannah Stone.
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