The Poetry Society

A thin gully's Mediterranean fjord:

sea gulps itself, heat slaps volcanic rock,

smoothes out a strip of black sand

just wide enough for two.

We sunbathe, swim naked, unseen

and safe except for sea-urchins

poisoning our feet.

Stillness, trapped heat, splintering

fish swarms, quiet waves

admonishing cliffs that lay

a green linoleum of sea.

Then strata begins to creep, shimmy, shuffle

sideways, the stone-age, unevolved eyes

of crabs staring everywhere.

Rock grows a pincered toolkit, its fatwa

of DIY fanatics snapping us

from water, frantically sheathing

our hubris of burning skin.