The Beach

Waves of heavy grass
brushed against fingertips
and salty seaweed,
dried dark and crisp,
carelessly swept
across warm sand
crunching like celluloid
beneath sandaled feet
ticker tape from a quietly
deserted street;
a parade long ended,
the disappointed
return to their homes, alone.
my god, you can almost hear
the brass band
and widowed women weeping
beneath the silence of the wind
while the ocean,
dedicated and devoted,
keeps time with its
inexorable caress.
coloured towels,
draw lines in the shore,
defining families like nations.
castles in the sand,
rise and fall,
while children stutter in protest
“Mama, I’m not cold!”
All the while
betrayed by blue lips
and shaking shivers

© Christopher Raine