The moon will pull the tide out.
Muscular and grey, it lurches
spits and fizzes, licks the beach
tinkles pebbles and glass
hollows out the rattling rocks
sucks the sand from his feet.
The moon pushes the tide in.
He rushes out, legs flail, eyes sting
as he breasts this thing. Returns
salted, humbled for land.
Later, up the hill, he sees
the crinkled silver creature
crawl under a clouded sky.
He understands then.
You cannot know the sea.
The moon does not care.
Pen Kease holds an MA in Writing from the University of Warwick and her poems have been published widely in magazines, anthologies and websites such as The Interpreter’s House, Algebra of Owls, Prole, The Recusant, Atrium, Here Comes Everyone, Militant Thistles, and The Thimble Literary Magazine.
Photo credit @arizonanthony at http://www.unsplash.com