On the Beach

I

The patterns of the draining sand look

just like the paving of my garden a

few million years ago.

ii

French mothers no longer wear well

–what happened?—while their

nubile daughters blow about the beach like

fragments of a shattered

warning sign.

III

Brown is the new beige, all those

factors factored out in the

vitaminising Sun.

iV

I am lost on this beach,

Friday’s footprints buried beneath

Saturday’s stampede.

V

Nevertheless, I will always return

like the waves, always the same,

like the waves, always different,

like the waves, always inexplicable.

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