all night the waves crash in the darkness.
I long for the slate roof of the sea to return,
instead of these ramshackle houses,
crafted from salt and shale, smashing themselves into nothing.
a seagull looks to the moon, tries to hold it in their sight
but the waves tonight are drinking the moon,
and the gulls’ cries shatter and sink like broken marbles,
sinking to the seabed, beautiful sea mines for the fish.
in the morning I ache from the storm,
hurting in both the obvious and less obvious places.
the sun has plaited the ribbons of the sea,
still trying to roar but bound by its shackles.
the cries of the gulls are less caustic,
believing kindness is now on their side,
not knowing why the storm came but perhaps
knowing themselves better as they lived through it.