Whitesands Bay
Far-flung exotica
have washed up on the beach.
And so have I
with my courgette pie
and pomegranate juice.
All strange together, we sit.
An orange plastic glove,
half sunk in seaweed tagliatelle
is tangled with fishing line
into a thumbs up sign.
I return the gesture,
then check the bay
in case I’ve been spotted
communing with jetsam.
All over the beach
small shells tug themselves
from wet sand,
drag smartly in silken lines
no roots, no baggage,
just living...
till the next tide.
Like those people
picked up by the moon.
They leave their keys,
their kids, no note, no trace,
begin all fresh again
with a new name.