Wednesday, April 12, 2017


Salt of the slack sea
slips through her free hair.
All will have care here,
beaches of drear days.
Cold are the glaze-glass
pools among grass slaked,
fetid of caked brine,
over which whine gulls.
Scroungers in lulls’ wash
fly from the splash, tricked,
ruffled then pricked back.

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