Trailing down, grappling
Chilling ghost towns taking seaside
children. They wait,
just wait. Pretty little dancers take their stance,
to hug tides when waves
are thrown, their strong endless
bodies spilling out against
gritty star dust.
Choosing to ignore the
unceasing urge – no trees,
no grass, no petal, spine or stem.
The shore, the shore, hold down the shore.