-as seagulls fly by
they are moking-
the sand entombs me
on this unusual day, this unusual hour
in this unusual way
I was trapped, sure
on this sandy beach
when the sea came playing
suddenly out of reach
as the waves catch me
and I’m lifting a hand
my body’s indulged
by golden beach sand
so this is the story of a woman called Lily May
a clumpsy poet who died on a sunny winters day
…
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