Ray Samuc

The lonely colours
of sunshades stand out
like beacons--
in the dim light

dropped
from gray clouds;
a murky sea spills
its depths under rusted

deck chairs--
tipping old wounds into
swollen graves, as
angry rocks gathered

below
steep cliffs
turn their backs
to the bullying waves--

remembering your dress,
white like the foam
of waves, dampened
in the salted spray,

throwing the light
from a bright sun, to the
smiling face
of the horizon.