Flotsam.

The dirty carcass of a plastic bottle of fizzy lemonade,
Lies vacant and empty on the sand
Waiting for its chance to kill.
The last remains of a small child’s excitement.

The dismembered claw of a crab reaches out helplessly
Towards something it will never reach,
It’s scuttling has been subdued by the stroking of the waves
Leaving only a still portrait of itself.

A single, heavy plastic glove fingers the sand,
It has been dragged from the hand of a fisherman
In the middle of a long dark night,
Then tried on and discarded by a restless sea.

The waterlogged body of a stately gannet
Lies, earthbound, at the foot of the cliff
After a lifetime spent soaring out above the waves
Exploring the currents of the wild air.

One of a million supermarket carrier bags
Shredded into tatters by a far away storm
Is finally held down in the grip of the wet sand,
Still gasping out its pristine logo.

Strange scraps of life which once lived and moved
Lie stricken, without purpose or identity.
They will wait there, unidentified, unremarked,
Until the sea claims them back

This is a place for small lives to celebrate themselves,
A place where the remains of pain and freedom
Are met by the remnants of human greed and folly
And both can find a moment to lie in state together.

I wander along the high tide mark
Watching and waiting for nothing in particular,
Claiming a small space to think.
Flotsam from a life elsewhere.

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