beach combing
Low Tide
Picking up a pebble, round and smooth, sand clinging to its wet surface. Rubbing it between fingers and thumb, I drop it into my coat pocket where it will probably stay. The promenade’s quiet today, the small skate park, busy.
On A Winter Beach
Scouring, wind whipping sand, stinging eyes, nose, mouth. Grey churning sea. Deafening.