That rarest of moments: snow on a beach,
White moving driftwood, a seaweed that flies
Or seems to. Horizon just out of reach
Rendered unstable, its truth turned to lies
By these wind-flung clouds obscuring the view
Of anything solid. My thoughts are these:
Cold winter seasides can give us a clue
Of possible futures caught in the breeze
That might blow us away, far out to sea
Where land is a memory, mind-held, old
As the forests shrink to one broken tree
And the climate grips us in something cold.
Still, make a snowman then wait till the tide
Carries your art to the ocean’s far side.