fingers wander through
sun bleached sand, wind
carrying it beside shells,
August coming, your
hair was lightened too in
the summer light, your hand
felt weaker in my grasp
inland, as we drove
back through the
grasses in the salt marsh
a bird called in the mid-dusk
wind
, trying to find
something which had been lost

I poured the words in a funnel
which turned inwards in a spiral
hope to see you at the other end