Making Tracks

Columns of beaten Crustacea, we shift across hot sand

carrying each one pinch determination to abandon land

throw anxious glances back to check we’re unobserved

in our last gasp endeavour to stage a smooth return.

Curved carapaces arching toward the pulling tide

cracked pincers raised, we dance our sidewards glide

treading warily, alien slapping waves in this aftermath

of countless million years without the saline bath.

Yet as murk and weed permeate marks of failure and despair

we leave the crooked path as if we were never there.

Whistler

A beached drifter

transcends undefined horizons

of personal lost tides.

Ankles crossed,

upstaged by caffeine conversation,

he smiles.

Unhurried,

lip-cracked penny whistle raised,

waits his moment.

One note,

barely audible, sustained,

compelling.

Emotions opening,

wrung out Earth begins to crumble.

Listen.