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Turn of the tide, turn of the year.

A poetcard from Sheringham

Alone among the pools
and rocks
just me
and the gulls

for scraps and shrimps
and shells and shards
of out-flown dreams.

Wind-whipped sea fret
takes my tears
and tears
the solstice prayer.

Catching spindrift
we brace

and face the wind
wings poised
for lift.


The gulls and I
we fly.

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