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You are now storm-struck,
no ‘met warning’,
there, blow-stranded,
all alone, tide-washed,

An unfortunate Crusoe,
shaking with the cold,
it would appear,
following footsteps
in the soft sand,
often tipping away
to one side;

it could be another
drunken stumble,
except this isn’t
a rum island.

You are disconnected
from your world.
Your existence needs
careful planning,
ready the beacons:
Help will be here.