Consent
The sea leaves scars on the sand
but the sand still loves the sea,
‘Don’t leave me!
Imprint some more!’
No more smooth, soft sand for playtime.
The sea has left a broken rhyme,
a feathery bruise, a crater.
The sand waits.
Later on the sea comes in,
it doesn’t creep,
it owns the sand,
it’s a keeper,
the sea brings its angry waves to pound and smash.
The sound scares the birds
but at least they are free
as they fly over the debris when the tide is low,
‘Don’t go!’
The sand lies cold
but the sun strokes it and we are told
it felt nothing
but that’s a lie.
It begins to enjoy this nightly thrashing.
The air is electricity flashing above the fight.
When it leaves it doesn’t apologise,
it’s wise enough to know who is boss,
tossing and turning like a child who ate too much
until it can return as the darkness swallows such a sunset.
Endless days are part of its appeal,
predictability is a wheel of fortune
hidden in the sand dunes,
healing is a mirage.
September 2016/ Weston beach
Alice Smith 2022
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