The ocean has retreated.
On the shore, dead things lie.
Seagulls pick at the carcasses.
New stones from the sea pock the beaches.
The last of the fishing boats remain at the docks,
waiting for high water.
You stand on the sand.
It’s cold grittiness grinds on the soles of your feet.
It has been a long winter. Bitter and cruel.
Your skin is dry and raw as your soul, waiting
for the water to rise.
About this poem
Evidently, according to spell check, Ebb Tide is actually one word (Ebbtide). One of the best things about being a poet is that you can ignore such details.
The picture was taken in Provincetown, Mass.