Amid castellated crumbling dunes,
sage sea grass pockets and emerald gorse
cut sharp shapes along a slate path
wound around a driftwood hut.
Over its’ living roof a skeletal tree
bends low in deference to a wild dog rose
clinging for purchase on its’ rising root.
We two are like this often, he and me.
Along a mile long stretch of sand where
beach umbrellas once fluttered coquettishly,
dark racing waves explode across a wet expanse
and screeching gulls beg for mercy under shot up surf.
After the thunderous ebb where winds once whipped up
laden clouds promising Shango’s passion,
mauve mackerel clouds drift adagio
amorphously through flaccid minds.
We two are like this often, he and me,
damp flesh hidden in hollow shadows,
his head pillowed between dusky mounds
and his sweet salt like crystals on my lips.