The hour turns and the wave comes fast,
Leans into the light,
Dark as slate with a restless sheen,
Unfurls on the shore
Its reach, a splayed hand,
This one further than the last.
Creamy finger tips skitter in the froth of excitement
And erase the braille of the previous moment,
Sucked back into the belly of the sea,
Marks on the beach,
A stranger’s kiss on the stomach of regret.
Vicky Newham © 2015