Devil Tide
The cold creeps,
Like silken tide
on bed of sand.
Cold by stealth,
Wavelets, unforgiving,
on smooth, aged shore.
The cold freezes,
And the Devil tide
laps at listless shells.
Cold lingers on breath,
Sea stalks, relentless,
Caresses smooth pebble.
Cold rests on glass,
Tide licks, feeds,
on sun’s leftovers.
Cold is raw,
As virgin sand pure,
Reluctant in chill wet.
Cold is Death’s kiss,
Sea bathes, merciless,
New life and extinction.
© Michael Garrad February 2011
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