A storm has bearded the beach
with a foetid deluge of seaweed.
It jumps with sandflies
and wheezes underfoot like black moss
The sea, a churning staircase of revolving glass
is an arcade game
pushing – not pennies – but stones
into shelves where they lie
setting in the April sun,
their lilac-velveteen palms turned upwards
Idly, I pick up a sea-branch.
It is bleached, winding and worn
a shepherd’s crook
or letter ‘S’
polished to pearly sinew at the elbow
When at my side
appears the game, gormless face of Dog
and I know what I must do.
As I raise the stick high, and fling it spiralling,
his quivering haunches prance for joy,
and he sprints,
loosening slings of seaweed
in his wake
[All text (c) Sophie Rashbrook]