Salt – sea – sand; sucked back by the morning tide,
to the briny depths of the briny sea.
The stranded seek asylum from the sun,
in the crabby shelters of seaweed green.
Children rush, sucking in the salt sea air,
sun white limbs bespattered with wet brown sand,
before dabbling feet and toes in the cold,
far reaches of the fast retreating shore.
On that line where the sea touches the sky,
a steamer steams its slow and steamy path,
to some distant port in some foreign clime,
as seagulls dive – dipping into the breeze.
Edifices arise out of the sand;
crabs soon seduced by the meat-baited strands;
sandwiches swallowed and soon devoured.
Then the sea makes claim to its own domain.
Towels are wrapped tight, saving exposed flesh
from the chill of the now stiffening breeze.
Wet clothes are packed up in canvas bags,
as families trudge home to warmth and tea.
And the creatures of the deep replenish
their cold, wet, fishy lives – quite unaware
of humankind, who, during low tide
take tentative steps back toward the sea.
YOU ARE READING
Still Waters
PoetryA collection of metered poems of life, death and everything in between.
