An Unseasonal Day In August

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This grey sea is still and cold beneath

an ancient slope of grass-clad granite.

Such dark depths, a forbidding murk

of bladderwrack and kelp that 

drowns its secrets, deceiving those who

watch from shore while tranquil waters

gently lap at sand and shell. 

Instead of grinding ocean's rage,

the mill of tides lies silent.

No storm's fury or clawing foam

tearing stone from stone and

breaching harbour wall,

No wild, white horses seething, 

racing over the waves.

And this slight curl of slack water

merely hints at wrecks of lives

and love.

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