The open casement by my bed
speaks the sound of the Georgian shore,
a moonless night,
blinds black my open eyes.
Listen.
On the stones and sand
the water’s edge,
is saying,
sleep,
to sleep .
In whispered shush,
small waves sweep back,
as I am young and
softly curl from shapes
into my seeping dreams.
To float below the surface ripples,
spent by the windswept crashes
from the foamy fists’ thundering pound,
splashing white on the grey gone day,
wetting strips of sand man skin,
I become a blood flood shore.