a love song

He has become her now.
Or maybe he is just tickling the air with his limbs.
She is holding onto a crepe paper sandcastle
instead of passing him the bucket and spade.
The passers by watch; bemused and sullen.
They twirl inside out and they pose as gulls that want to feast on the
sandwiches that have been cut into
little triangles-
so beautifully,
as the wind plays the sexiest of solos;
on the banjo.