She with feet on wet stones, sliding across sea washed shingle.

The storm, a distance of hours, now could be a million miles away. 

Tins touch her feet, plastic remains, tossed by a sea back to us. 

The sea slouches now, gently washing, tickling her feet. 

She and the sea agree, together they make a pact to admire.

She goes, leaving the plastic, the tins and all on display.