Some daisies and granite, in ground, but, a little,
stuck out into spring sunshine.
A drop,
and then rubble, coloured as desiccated dog shit.
Beyond and much around, a shallow sea,
a centre of the bar submerged.
Blousy incoming white curves,
fuller on the north side than on the south,
mixing into blown net curtain tangles.
As yet there is no great synchronicity.
East is much the same as west: the other end
of a shrivelling cut worm of shingle.
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