With thanks to Claire

The cliff face causes shade here

and there, indents in the land for the fair-skinned

to hide in.

I rest on a smoothed rock

and comb my windswept hair, winding

tendrils that could be roots – or seaweed.

The gulls whistle overhead and the waves

growl their response,

as though in a long-standing feud.

I remove my rings and sparkle, set it

down next to me to catch the sun –

to lure the next one in waiting,

and I ask for the sea to take me.