Monday, 18 August 2014


with thigh-rolled jeans he had strode
out to where the sea catches its breath,
forgetting the electronical device in his pocket.

And in that wind-plucked foam, 
made a father-pose,
though no sandal'd tussock bug rolled the dunes
waving the prize of a perfect wooden pistol,
and the shore was repeatedly planed clean,
clear of all gust battered figures.

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