Dinas Dinlle

The tide comes higher, smoothing out the shore.
It crumbles shell-capped fortresses with ease;
the past day's footprints, scrawled obscenities
and lovers' names are lost for evermore.

What offerings it leaves as it retreats -
old oil drums, long-dead creatures, skeins of weed:
playthings for seagulls and that lonely breed
who pick and sift the shore for hidden treats.

Your driving waves caress away despair,
reduce the castles where I try to hide,
removing scars of half-remembered pains.

Together we examine what lies bare,
discard the dross and cherish what remains -
you are my lover, counsellor, and tide.