Arniston

Storm-spashed morning sun
sprinkles your face
seeps through waking skin,
brushes me with light.

More dreamed than real, your
body lifts soft
as spume blown from waves;
Your voice tiptoes light

as  rock-pool footfall,
into my dreams;
adds bright threads to
wind-weaved tapestry.

Hearts beat in pulses
of light; our breath
is a crabby squall
clawing at the walls.

Your body is the
sea-surge rising
urgent to answer
a far-distant storm.

Gulls shriek at the wind
that lifts and flings
them across the sky;
angry wind howls back.

Here in the whale-backed
bay the tide swells,
piling wave upon
wind-driven wave,

Until the moon, loosing
her grasp, rolls on
and, ebbing, the tide
subsides with a groan.

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