Your Singing Soul

(I realise that this is a bit unseasonal.  I wrote it in February but have only just bashed it into shape.)

.

An empty half-mile Winter’s beach.  The air like jaws.
Not a soul.  But your singing soul.  No other soul.

The wind like saws.  You stop.  Look left.  Look right.
Quickly, clothes off.  Pushed into the sand.  Stand.

Sand and chill attacking your naked body.
As you run.  And then.  Waves like hammer blows.

Your feet.  Your ankles.  Your thighs.
Your stomach.  Your chest.  Your shoulders.

Your singing soul.

And back out.  Running full pelt to your clothes.
Sand everywhere.  Your uncooperative wet body.

You put yourself back together.  Still in one piece.
A death-chill on your lungs.  Your heart hammerbeat.

Your brain saying.  What if anyone saw you?
Your singing soul.  What would it matter if they did?

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