Robin Brown Poet Sonnet

Sonnet 3: The Receding Foam

The final rush of water slows 
its pace
To trace a lace of white upon
the sand,
A gentle, slow, and soft-
unfolding grace
That gently pulls the edges
of the land.
The wave returns to where it
first began,
To heal the wounds of where
the currents tore,
To wash away the heavy
steps of man
And smooth the wrinkled 
apron of the shore.
It is sacred rhythm, dark 
and old,
A constant breath that never
seeks to rest,
A story told and then again 
retold,
Upon the ocean's wide and
changing breast.
The wave is gone, but still the
water rise,
To match the turning of the 
midnight skies.

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