Beach grass waves like strands of golden hair,
making the same simple sound in its sway.
Sand grains irritate and agitate the wind,
that blows them into air-born tots at play.
In the lonely blister of a day done in hues
of black and gray come the gulls to swoop.
Punctuation marks in the mist of rain sweeping
the sand into busy chickens cackling in the coop.
A lone log of driftwood has taken root
in a quiet place...hands raised as if in prayer.
Time has eased a hollow in front of its gray wood,
and welcomes lovers to kiss and cuddle right there.
Angry waves chop up the surf, angry that land
gives it no hold or purchase - not any kind of home.
Yet, there would be no earth to celebrate if oceans
were let loose to seep beyond borders to roam.
Eyes of gulls and eyes of one little woman in a hat
seeking shells in the cold, sodden moments of the day.
these are the only eyes to capture the quiet, morose damp...
where only old women and sea gulls come out to play.
Copyright © Sherry Asbury