Golden Sand

We lie with golden sand beneath us caressing our skin
as the green sea laps at the yellow sun-bleached grains,
drawing lines, scoring marks, cutting dark and deep.
I feel her warmth pour over me like the sea, like the sun
setting, kissing my naked flesh under the blue lined sky.
My eyes, sore with aging fatigue, see above the green sea
the raging marks of stripes and dots fading to a river,
a stream of blood-red bleeding like felled democracy
into the green organisation of the deep, grave sea.
My hand reaches for hers, the woman I’ll never meet,
never see by the hegemonic sea, never feel her pulse
on my shimmering skin or taste her sweat on my lips
while the feint Luna shadow casts our silence into cold
solitude wrapped in blue and red veins with spots
of yellow clinging as yellow sand toils unfettered,
free of the grave green clutches, the green that fades
with each kiss of the beach, with each splash of foam.
Her fingers entwine with mine curling as cold as death
as our hearts beat as one sound and our blood runs
in rivers to the depths of the green hegemonic sea.


Rochester, 2016

Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15 or

Image from:


About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on
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