Freighters’ lights, like stars,
glimmer and swim
in the distance. Between swells,
they fall from view. Our eyes
track their progress, instinctively
seeking their reappearance
each time they drop into vast
watery valleys below the black
horizon. Watching driftwood burn,
we feel the cold sand dampening.
Nearby, waves tumble and hiss,
closer now than before. The tide
is turning. We must go.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six