Saturday Centus … the Hound

Tide ebbed from the east we walked westward.
Looking to where the sun lowered into the sea.
Squinting, seeking along the saltern sand
Walking wading at the water’s edge.

The hound bounded in swirls; hither and thither.
His fleshy mouth scooping the  surface of the sand.
The tip of his tail twitched triple time.
His stride lengthened leaping towards the driftwood

Thrown; it breaks the mirror images of  the evening cloud
that billows over the Northdowns and scurry southwards.
Lone seagulls strutt and search in debris; for morsels left by the tide.
Swoop into the dunes and laugh at the foolish hound