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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