She was me before the sea

The tide rolled in to watch us fight,
applauding over pebbles.

She pushed me into the surf.
I pushed her into the surf.
She knocked my legs from under me,
watched me crash on the shingle edge of the sea.

I stole her beams
and braided them,
weaving her bandwork into the sky.

“What is she?” asked the waves,
rolling the water wheels home.

“She’s moonbeam
and sunset
and depth,”
I replied.

“She’s the churn of your ocean songs,
burrowing shorelines
and leaping at skies
and
planting the fires out of sunset –

painting the darkness for rust-weary eyes.”