Smooth out the one kink in the slinky silver skirt
Two likely gulls, ankle deep in my slinky sea
Eye me suspiciously, as if they'd have something to say about that.
Legs like coloured pencils: the colour of feminine rage.
Children run as if a hand of encouragement at their backs
Flashes of colour along the sand, darting, squealing, enough to confuse the dogs.
Time takes pleasure in the young, enjoys rushing them
Later on its hand becomes so stretched from so much encouragement it becomes like elastic that's lost it's elasticity, not strong or quick enough to snatch back the pressure with any control or panache, then there's less fun in it.
Another day of rejection. A day of reckoning. A faceless, spaceless email, barely two lines 'long'. Warm regards, I don't think so. I toss it to the sea: the wind accepts the message into its folds and sends it forthwith out on the tugging tide, before swallowing it for sustenance.
Time, in spirit at least, is always on one's side.
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