NOT MISSING BASINGSTOKE
Feathery fronded rivulets drain to the sea,
Mirroring the stranded wracks,
Horned, serrated, bladder;
Lugworms’ sinuous, mudded mounds
Cast elongated shadows on the silk smooth sand;
Low waves slowly roll and gently slap the shore.
He answers the trilling phone –
‘On the beach. Yes. Glorious.’
‘No. No, not at all.’
The incoming tide crosses the fractal folds of the beach
And soothes his footprints away.
Copyright © James Rose 2017
I am a retired physician, a Northumbrian by upbringing and affiliation. I write short stories and poetry and these have been published in magazines and an anthology..