High Tide

Maybe one too many caipirinhas

Maybe her mates thought it would be a hoot

To leave her, snoring and slavering,

In a cheap white plastic garden chair

Perched on the brow of the beach

Maybe the tide tickled her feet awake

And she jump-started

As the sea busily devoured the shore

Between her and her hotel

A meal it enjoyed every high tide

Maybe she would have tottered without the undertow

Heels in one hand -

And who wears heels in the sand?

Her handbag held high in the other

The walk back became a test

Of teeth gritted, of strength, of endurance

As each successive wave plucked and pulled at her

Every stumble, every sodden step, heavy and drenched

And she could easily have been swept away

But she climbed the wooden stairs

Black with saltwater

To her holiday home

To a towel’s warm embrace

And the promise of a further caipirinha

Grimly refused