while weary spirits, waifs awash in taffeta & tulle,
peer wild-eyed through the Storm;
we watch: they fade, they reappear;
We cannot touch their hands;
the beach, once here, sighs lonely echoes,
lonely echoes, moan the silence
the beach, deprived, shows only echoes now.
the beach once filled us with Her colours
see the Seahorse Gallop on parade?
see the dead seahorse on the torn blanched beach?
you scream yourself hoarse;
you scream yourself to Sleep
your dream of stallions moans a Truth,
as a vicious steel wind plunders you into empty sea-rocked Night
in this New Ocean's Night
our Hearts embrace an empty ache -
we cannot touch a maidens' hand,
although we try; we weep for her;
we move, in line, as if they stole our eyes