Outside, allotment of winter
Beech leaves smoke a bonfire tang
The warmth of spent breath

At low tide
The smell of mortal sickness
Mesh of nets
Humped against a wall
The beach’s broken ikons of war
Savagely rusting

Show me a satrfish
apricot limbs open
forsaken grace on the shore

I shall cradle the image
Set it
A wedding ring
for the waves