The Beach

The sea sighs like yet another lonely night.
These are dry dull days when even the sand
Seems dead and bare of flotsam,
Not even having the energy
For some wind-blown shapes
Or wave-formed sculpture.

Even the thronged gulls seem hushed,
Having no stomach for the fight
Over the last few tourist-dropped scraps
Left discarded and scattered like broken symbols
Around the edges of abandoned encampments
Like the faded promises of a failing religion.