Prawn tide

As the sun came up, a faint frost
dusted dunes and tussocks
then disappeared. Behind the breakers
white vapour floated, throwing
a veil over island hills haunch-hunkered
by the water. The moon set pink
this morning; now red prawns flow
and writhe in lines along the tide mark
in a plague of plenty. Birds 
wallow in the shallows, too glutted to fly
but for one seagull Narcissus-skimming 
above his wet sand reflection,
mirrored wingtips touching
for eternity. Bones
of driftwood litter the beach,

jade waves pummel the shore,
tweak its fabric flat along the flanks,
twitch at wrinkles, finger ripples
like the witch at Gretel’s ribs.

(published in The Camel Saloon August 2014)