Page 50 of Sea sores – A Brightonian Book.
At the hightide mark, on neither earth nor sea
but in the width between the two, solitary figures sit.
There is a cruel beauty in their silhouettes,
an absence in which can be measured some
of what each lack.
Out of bedsit and love that lasts no longer
than the dragonfly lives.
To the sunken meadows and a bellowing sun,
as if the sea is a healer’s hand under
which a heavy heart can lift its lowered eyes.