Listen, the sea is singing; her song is
The hiss of waves, stinging, the slushed suck
Of spray, when sand gloops back, mud-glugged
Into a trap. Listen, she
Drifts slowly in, hissing.
Now her million
Fingers thread dead
Bones (her neck –
Wants her toys –
Now! Come, enter
Me, she whispers, sighs,
I’ll caress your thighs, I’ll
Undress your mind: up against
The rocks, the lovers kiss; she groans
In their million kisses, hisses,
Moans: ‘Now your bones will make fine necklaces!’


© Richard Westall