Fugue III

and this delicate frill of white
beautiful as any hand-worked stuff
moves up the beach
covering and swallowing everything
in its path - nothing stops it
this tiny frill of white
moon-powered water-lace

and I keep pace with it
I walk alongside
watching my feet don't get wet
watching as the families sit up
behind their canvas windbreaks
and the children run
and the dogs fetch balls
charging through the waves

later on, in the garden on dry land the
birds sing to me: sparrows,
oystercatcher, blackbird with
starlings, swifts
in hedges, on lines,
bathing in the bath
or whirling in the
hot blue air, they
all coast by in a hot day blur

and I doze like an old lady in her
chair
the seagulls cry

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