That hound
jumps waves,
yaps, scrapes sand,
spins, runs, yelps.
Old trailers, colours
hit by sun, turn
old and careless.
A sticky breeze
glues my hair,
pulls pages from a book,
flutters kites up to sky roof,
hangs / crinkled / each
chapter numbered
as if sequence
was right.
These rocks
chopped by sea,
flat, slippery,
still wet from the tide,
odd sticks and plastic,
puddles and pools,
little fish zip zap, disappear,
bubbling ferns underwater.
Pull away to horizon,
ill-defined arc
where tankers crawl,
gulls patrol the airways,
eye everything,
swoop and squawk.
This pebble is round
and cold,
it falls
before it reaches the waves.