The sun is caught in jaws of the strand -
a red ball tossed from sky to land.
Disembodied voices scratch and catch,
long limbs of sand shift and switch,
lion-tawny, and the rocks are spread like claws.
The sky is a huge blue roar.
Our sore, sun-scoured skin throbs raw.
The pines' dark fingers stiffen, shadow-shackled;
nose-prickling air acrid with the resin
of scorched trees; dry husks of crickets
scattered underneath like dead shells.
Our future darkens in the pine-pungent shade.
The silver sea glitters restlessly,
how it creeps up silently -
a predator advancing
to maul the cone-pocked shore.
And we, too, are dismembered -
our linked finger closeness shattered,
blown apart by the landscape's hot breath;
remnants scattered, swallowed
by the gaping gold maw of the bay.