The wind hits the gable in gusts -
blasts that whistle, and the
rain tracks down the glass

the beach was curved, white,
perfect, tidelines of tiny shells
and towering sand - hills covered in grass
telling the 
depth of the sea, long ago,
above our heads the height
of a house - we walked
the curve with the clear green
waves crashing

gulps of fresh Atlantic air before
the rains came
and we headed home
salt on our tongues
some bones lying white,
bleached, sea and land
life gone before us:  a
vertebra, a jaw, a leg -

the birds glide by, wings
outstretched, borne
on the wind's strong arm
taking the updraught,
looking down

One Year Round The Sun
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