On the beach in weather—I mean grey scruffy weather—
is different to a non weather day—I mean
blue-skies-taken-for-granted-sunshine-easy-peasy.
Chips of rain pick at my face, old pint
foamy wave whitecaps—half empty I mean—
tip and tear, crumpling onto the mizzly sand
plummeting from their wavy height
slapping down with a slosh of might
Splash! Lash! Life!
There are no people.
I mean none
and many birds—I have
a bird book at home.
It’s wild—I mean, wild. Bird book wild.
Out here with my hood down, my hair wet
on my lunch break from the post office
where no one can see and no one can laugh
I’m a dancer—I mean—in the wind
I’m the greatest dancer ever born.
C. Ryan ©