Collapsed tents of net
stretch past the sunken tiny-windowed cottages
Abandoned fishingboats drown in sand. He
walks the sunset. She
flaps like a mad bird
in his dressing-gown and throws it off.
over rocks moulded into Daliesque whorls
by millenia of waves.
She rolls on the stillwarm beach
then gets up
a risen mermaid
her bodystocking warm crystal sand.
They walk home
past the square whitewashed house
where the quiet lady artist
used to live.
From Painted, Spoken No 8 (2005)