Stagger

Published by

Iona Winter

on

Sand ridges in

perfect formation

like frozen waves

caress the beach.

I walk the track

a drunkard’s stagger

timed

with the ocean.

‘You have to pass by

the door of death

in order to be reborn’

you whispered.

Ageless kelp beds

cushion my fall

into the sea

green

like weathered glass.

No longer can I

see sand ridges

instead there is a swell

against my thighs

and you.

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