Nothing is here,
Though a blue sky, edge to edge,
Accompanies a mild-mannered sea,
white-capped for decoration.
Postcard-painted beach huts throw their colours to the sun.
A hundred thousand sistered stones make shingle.
Loneliness is here.
But the sea is playful, chucking balls of spray.
So she ups her zip, while tensing,
slightly wary of catching skin.
Feels the mild discomfort of the stones
Beneath her feet. They’re slightly warm to touch,
Just slightly warming
Emptiness is here.
Complicit though, the ocean -hush, shush, hush -
denies it, plays at perfect summer’s day.
She drops a matt grey, ocean-tumbled stone
her hand has nursed. Returns it to the fellowship
of pebbles, walks away.
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