Replying to a comment on:
Sonnet (Sonnet) by zodiac
Off-work Sundays we walked to tide pools,
shoppers at a bazaar: here sea glass, here
miss, here the urchin, here a clavicle
of deadwood scrubbed white, bullâs-eye seastar, here
black hobnailed rocks. The ocean turning pat,
obsequious, eager to make the sale,
held out a short arms-length of argyle, lace,
some silk handwork I was sure turning over
would show newsprint, whirled stains, some fakery.
We walked, bored sunstruck tourists, full as moons,
until the tide all in a tantrum klar-ed
its buoy-bells, counted, recounted, charged
the market, curled back, counted and again
swept up, to end things. We welcomed it in.