Pushed away from an old ship
a little wave runs up on the beach,
first on tiptoe, then overlapping, on the sly,
drops the unwary player
into a black cradle on the easy side.
Onto sea sand soft as a blanket.
And a deliberate scuba diver removes
from its face, like a hair disturbing sleep,
a cold, sticky sheet of seaweed.
A purple window. A yellow one.
The express train in pungent lands
slices through a canvas with sunflowers
a sunny side and a sunset side.
In one colourful spot the eye seizes on
mills flying in the opposite direction.
Threads of wind mute onrushing sounds.
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