The Sand Man

I imagine the moon
dictating the line of tide
with a fickle, sidelong glance.

Maybe she rests here,
her lashes fallen sticks
salted with the ocean¹s bitterness.

I collect what she leaves behind,
comb her tangle of surf
around the crescent of the bay.

Placed in the Mirehouse Poetry Competition.

© 2004 Victoria Lawless