The storm-hurled water pushes in,
Angry green and folding under itself.
A convex of foam consumes my footprints,
Fast filling the intrusion,
The salt ephemera of history.
I'm not here anymore,
No path back.
Over-reaching again, the tide gives up its ambition,
Retreating with a sigh.
Gathering back its dark hoard,
A rock carpet
thunder-tumbling back to the sea,
A music of pebble insolence,
Of doors bolting,
Commuter stones grinding,
eroding each other,
back into an invisibility of sand.