AT LOUISA BAY
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)