(for J.C)
Lockdown, an empty beach

pockmarked with yesterday’s footprints,

               now sculpted by morning tides

coarse sand, the coldest of grain.
Driftwood lingers, and a solitary crow

eying the movement of waves,

              undeterred by silence, isolation

transience, its own chill cry.

Beyond the flatness, sand hills

              come and go, your artist’s gaze

freezing the moment in time.
You send me the photograph

as you trudge the length of the beach

             nothing happening but walking,

just you, the crow and the sea.