The Clockwork Shore

The tides are made of copper gears today,

Grinding against the sand with a metallic hum.

The gulls are silent, their wings stiff and grey,

Waiting for the master spring to become undone.I think I left the oven on at home.The salt spray tastes of oil and ancient rust,

As mechanical waves crash in rhythmic beats.

We are but shadows in this world of dust,

Watching the ocean retreat in its brassy sheets.