Morning Turns the Page
Morning Turns the Page
Night lies softly across the beach
as delicate as a black, silken scarf
while, underneath its dark veil,
the sea is blue tissue paper
with whitened finger tips,
wrapping an early morning present.
Then night, nature’s magician,
magically removes its black disguise
allowing early morning light to reveal its gift -
an awakening beach washed by sea and sun.
A hurrying-scurrying train rushes up,
sprinting between houses,
swerving towards the beach,
as if trying to catch an elusive wave.
Next, with a deeply drawn breath,
its metal body ducks under a hump of bridge,
rattling out the other side with a whistled scream.
A giant, oak jumps back in surprise
branches fumbling, acorns tumbling
like golden coins being spent
while blades of grass ripple and flex
waving the chattering carriages on their way.
Speedily, the train scribbles its way forward
reaching for the distance where a town awaits,
where streets and cars are a working toy set;
at the seashore, waves calm themselves
throwing final cups of cappuccino froth
over coffee, coloured grains of sand.
The sea slows to a mutter, a white whisper
while the beach gradually relaxes and waits
to be toasted by a warming sun.
Later when the morning gradually
turns the page into the afternoon,
the day loses its chuckle
as the seaside scene is met with
a push of wind and a punch of a storm.
Long departed the train
continues to stretch its journey
searching scenery to entertain its passengers
while hugging the coast like a long, lost friend.
Ian Souter
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