The blues merge
lose character
as faint-light tinsels
deep as damn
into dusk-pools.
Day players,
fold salt-wet life back
inside striped canvas bags.
Parading gulls sulk,
their luminous screeches
jump out, brightly voiced
from nightfall's dirge.
A black and orange tug,
wakes by, checking,
dead shore
for the lifeless
and not so.
Sailboarders scoop
a sandpit fireplace,
slotting beach scrap
between tinder flames,
their barbecue group
enthused and vibrant,
patch a pirate's living,
to the fabric they hang on.
Two women's shell-likes,
eavesdrop the seaweed edge,
hearing distant cinema songs,
where the wrecks used to be.
They glaze over, unnoticed,
and the snack bar
crumples into nothing.
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