There is silence as the sea recedes
far out, far out the level sands
are gold and wet, and far the line of blue
beyond view.
No sea birds cry this high up the strand
and all the flotsam, jetsam
of the wreck lie nearby
foundered here and there
flung-up by the tide
and to my ear no sound arrives -
no word, no cry,
and no-one comes, no footprints mark
this curve of sand deserted
by the sea and all
living company
except me.
And my hands are full of sand,
and water on the brain
prevents cogency as well as pain,
and plan
softens will
and, with compass gone,
no coracle, where
do I go from here? And where
and how and
why?   And is there water
I can drink, water
that will satisfy?
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