Beachcombing
Early morning
and I walk the shoreline
of my waking mind,
picking over what has been
washed up, the tidal spoils
dislodged from a dream,
scattered memories,
the flotsam of time.
These are what I lay
upon a page,
the beach strewn litter
from a throw away age
and weathered sea shells
that speak, murmur into
a listening ear the incantations
of the deep.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2025
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