Driftwood


Early morning mutts charge the sea headlong,

odd cocked legs stalling the bolting.

Tense stretched tethers tie walkers to walked.

 

Sand-flies drizzle the sun-baked seaweed,

Martins swoop skirting dunes,

Yet it’s as still as any photograph.

 

Bits of life repeating their yesterdays.

 

Familiar waves wash in the driftwood of past losses;

On another day it would be memories of warm august rain

Or sweated skin, but today each wave

Is the birth and death of an old friend.

 

He ghosts quietly onto land and fizzles out.

He sings the same familiar refrain which echoes along the bay

Then sadly his ghost arrives again and again

Oozing memories

Refusing to sleep just yet.

 

Oh Alisdair.

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