by Liz Trew
We are beachcombers
drifting across sandbars,
solitary walkers approaching a waterline
drawn to a glitterwet pebblebed
and a sandwater margin ribbed by the sea.
Love-lines of sea-flow.
Tidal ebb rushes its sizzle foam edge
before sucking back raw knuckle skin.
On our wake blazing I turn away
searching among pebbles and oyster shells
that once held their pearls.
I turn broken shingle and hairline cracks splitting,
choose heavy blood-stones – jet, jasper, burnt eyes of amber.
You stride a flint bed grasping your metal detector.
Your metalmoon drones dedging you coins,
a lost key and ring.
We hear the sea lift a shoulder and leave each of us
searching our most precious thing.