Unseasonable Low

A hidden tide tugs
dragging earth to sea 
over and over.
Used to be higher ground
where the tall grass grew
and whole seashells
bit into the toes.
Fall lay waste the green
in a dirty sullen brown.
There is ground still
where waves don't batter
The bruising has been
long, from full moon to new.
Maybe best for Spring
to speckle the green.
And till then walk 
by water and shore,
until the tide can turn.
 

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Low Bar

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