Here on the Beach (IP) New edit. Possible not last...

I.

Here on the beach
where the sand is tiger striped.
safer to walk with a half-turned eye.

Dandielion seed  in the wind,
lifted, in your hand over your fringe...
In the quagmire steps we take..

Over the edge of land, into the stuff
our dreams are made of:  broken.

II.

The horizon beacons: lights, myriad specks.
A fluid ozone; a restless ocean, starfish,
and the wind ablaze. Collars up.  We race.

Half laughing as the wind tosses us up.
Over the sand dunes, and down where -
we collapse in crisis.  Trace a finger

into the loose golden top, where the sand worms
trail zig-zagged a ragged line to run out -
in the wind tossed sea. 

III.

You and me, you and me...
as we wind bent into a titanic bow
over an incoming surge of dirty aquamarine
my toes sink in. 

We turn as dancers to the rain,
both totally in love again.
He speaks low to my collar bone.
Is he asking me to marry him?

Or to say his wife is waiting at home.
Shabby chic, old lace at windows. Empty shell.
A dog paddles past, and breaks the spell.
His master alert to danger points us back.

IV

We race the tide to the tiny steps to the inn
and a plate of fish and chips in a paper basket.
"It's all good!" he says, delighted.  The rain's solid,
falls sheetlike over the prominade, there is no sign

of man and dog.  I find a spot of courage and step
out to the edge, and in the pale faint distance,
he's on  a sandbank, watching, his stick, three pronged,
waves at me.  His dog a seal shortened, and wants to swim.

Here on the beach, which world do we live in? 
I find myself wandering buckets and spades, bright red and yellow.
Primary functions; he follows me, soft voiced, a temptation to
adulthood, a long reminder of time.  A dandielion seed.
fini.

Here on the beach.

.....

Here on the beach
where the sand is tiger striped.
safer to walk with a half-turned eye.

Sand grit is in the wind, in each parsec
shifted, in your hand over your fringe...
In the half turned steps we take..

Over the edge of land, into the stuff
our dreams are made of:  broken.
Here on the beach.

The horizon beacons: lights, myriad specks.
A fluid ozone, a restless ocean
and the wind ablaze. Collars up.  We race.

Half laughing as the wind tosses us up.
Over the sand dunes, and down where -
we collapse in crisis.  Trace a finger

into the bone sharp shell, where the sand worms
trail zig-zagged a ragged line to run out -
in the wind tossed sea. 

You and me, you and me...

.............

*written originally for the poster poem page (the guardian site) and edited since.