Low Tide

The shore lies emptied,   

Exposed by the ebb of a tide   

Retired to collect itself –   

Its absence leaving     

Leaden sand to bear   

The weight of my slog   

Through the landscape of a loss   

Strewn with the detritus of broken   

Shells that once sheltered     

Teeming life.  

Overhead the keen     

Of a gull rouses me to collect     

Myself and the gleam of white feather   

Set against bright ocher  

Of shining pebble     

At rest beside rose-tipped,  

Unbroken shell: gifts bequeathed     

By waters withdrawn to whisper     

And shift and waken my eyes to see    

The tide has turned.

© August 2012