Guilty gifts

She wanted to feel small again,
still brave enough
to shout her name into the head wind,
to breathe herself alive in the rising swell.

The pier was deserted as she stepped over
the danger sign that danced on its rusty chain.
Through the murk of stirred up sand
her red raincoat appeared disrespectful
to one so angry, one so hungry.

The wooden boards flexed like sleeping ribs
as a large wave spewed over a little café
soaking her favourite Sunday morning spot
to sit and sip hot Mocha.
She would watch the red of the sun
behind closed eyes and inhale the sea-salt air,
the way her mother had always done.

Far off in the deep its mass was moving,
a vast sea cat timing its run for the neck,
each thudded step counted in the waves
as she ran towards the spray,
a surfer would have known what was coming.
The ocean smashed through the decking,
a sledge hammer on piano keys,
its mouth tight around her legs and chest
as it carried her deafeningly into muffled silence.

On a warm Sunday her usual spot was taken,
a man watching his son crab fishing on the rocks.
" I've got one" the boy shouted,
guiding his catch into a bucket.
He didn't notice the red shape shifting in the sand
surfacing only to fold across the rocks,
a small offering as the guilty tide
bowed with outstretched arms
and stepped away.