Slow Rush

Tide's playing with me;

rolling in white foamy bubbles,
teasing my toes, straining fine grains
of sand; the slow
rush of passing time.
Sun sets,

winds stir, whipping
my hair and dress into a mild frenzy;
I shiver, pull tight my shawl. A
hundred feet away a

mermaid on a rock;
you, silhouetted against

the background of
smeared orange-pink clouds
and shadowed mountains, painting

a black surf. The air has lost
warmth; I walk to where you are perched
atop the rock. I shiver,

you brush hair off my face, draw me
into your embrace and we watch the night slow
rush its descent and a flock of

seagulls fly into the moon.