The Beach

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This a picture I have seen many times during Autumn and Winter. It is memorably beautiful.

Along the water's edge, the grey waves
Break noisily in a white foam spray,
Curling carefully like well-permed hair.
Driftwood carried on to the shingle
Envelops the wind-blown plastic and
Frames torn pictures from worn magazines.
Gifts such as these on the rising tide,
Heaps and tangles of modern life,
Invade the left-lying debris, the 
Jumbled remains of day-trippers.

Kindred souls and urban litter louts
Leave the evidence of their presence,
Making the beach dirty and desolate.
No one finds beauty among such dross;
Only the screaming seagulls come to 
Pick through the scattered waste but leave
Quite aggrieved and wailing plaintively.
Returning to the rooftops, they wait
Statue-like for the home-coming boats,
To scoop up fish spilling from the nets.

Unsullied shingle emerges as the
Vast armies of tourists disappear.
Winter's tidal surges help the
Xenophobic beach to purge itself.
Year end renewal refreshes the
Zest for life along the water's edge.

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