Dinestrup Strand

Your gods in my hands

totems of salt and the end

your keen eye behind my lens

jealous of my women but never of my men

the wind lingers by the foredune at Dinestrup Strand

a sheltered little patch of sand

your boiling blood, your seeking heart

your brave lungs, your patient guard

my freediving muse

up for a breath

down for a glance

hell, what a dance

I stand by your can't-leave-behinds

you stand by my can't-press-forwards

a still war that will never be won

but don't say it hasn't been fair

give me your crabs

I'll pass them along.