It's dusk, and
soft whispers of spittle fall from the sky
like the tears of a lover who cannot cry.
The icy air is languid
a slumberous echo of the wind so anxious,
whilst the foam thrusts lazily against the sand.

A rotting carcass of a boat,
it's flush'd red colour peeling from the throat.
The considerate neglect of the scattered leaves,
creates patterns of vines so finely weaved.
And outside,
Tough boots withered away like tidiness disturbed,
as though fond memories are keen to be preserved.