a lapse of memory.

I was so busy yesterday describing the tent and the event that I forgot to put my winning poem on the blog. Here it is:





Tideline.

I am at the feet of the dunes. Buffeted by a breeze
with feet blued by the lap and chuckle of an Welsh tide.
Rocks, pebbles, grit, and sand. Place strata of textures
for my seeking toes and the waters lacy edge deposits items
for my choosing. Gentled from the cupped palm of a wave.
Bladder wracks’ fat air-sacs bulge as it entwines
with glistening ribbons of seaweed. They glimmer sharp
as a diesel-spill rainbow. Razor-shells gleam, shiny
with pink nacre To lie like pooh-sticks on the sand.
Scallops scatter. Spilt coins from a Pirates purse.
Washed by the wave’s salty fingers. Hemmed in
by the conical swirls of worm-casts. Bejewelled
by the last bubbles of the creatures departure.
Even mans’ discarded items become the sea’s own.
They are faded. Eroded. Changed by briny abrasion.
All are softly rounded, Polished smooth with sharp edges
stroked into sinuous curves. The tide-line draws me on.
Each step shows more as I meander slow and wind-blown
along the water’s edge.