Consent

more mixed messages

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

Published by 361one

when I write I am a king. Listen to more at 361 live podcast

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