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07/07/2016

AT LOUISA BAY

Lewis Buxton

The cushioned heels of a morning jogger
push the embers of last night’s bonfire
deeper into the sand. The charred black

driftwood, edged in white ash,
crumbles when touched. I can see the fag butts
curled like sleeping dogs at the bottom

of the fire pit; the ring pulls from beer cans
shine in the dull, grey morning. Last night
you and I stripped off our shoes and socks

baptised our feet in the October tide.
We returned home with the sin of sand
still clinging to our soles. You are asleep now

wood smoke still hugging your lungs and clothes.

 

(First published in Elbow Room Issue.12, AYP Publishing)

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