I awoke, on the beach
at Durdle Door
Pebbles jabbing their bony fingers
into the knuckles of my spine
Tear tracks make maps of cheeks
a brew of salt and sand
that cannot easily be brushed away

The alarm call of gulls above
they want my chips
But it’s 4am
and these hands are empty
with swollen palms
and throbbing skull
I have nothing to offer
them… or anyone

The busy sea endlessly working
a factory of strange stones 
and broken glass
a conveyor belt 
of timeless offerings
for which I have no use

I’ll find my sodden shoes 
leather scuffed and trousers torn
A sunrise detonates
as I go gasping steeply back to town
My mind a tide, receding
erasing, gradually retreating
this gnarled and ragged shame…