No wave, no life, washes up on the beach
but the T-Shirt does not fit. No matter,
after drying the cotton on granite,
the metaphysics shrink and I move on
beyond this cove, trudging back up the cliff.
Above the clinging path a pair of choughs
spilling in sky, stockinged in red, flaunt
their ease of flight, an aerobatic tease.
And I, like a Lewis chessman, bite my shield
for a queen and shuffle back to the waves.
Copyright © Phil Wood 2015
Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. His poetry work can be found in various publications including: Clear Poetry, The Lampeter Review, The Black Sheep Journal, Dactyl Zine.