The Beach
The beach is peaceful this
Autumn evening, the odd
screech of a seagulls
jealousy as it scraps for
pieces of flotsam.
The soft slap of the tide
as it paws the shell and
shingle, grey slate clouds
lumpy, uneven, as if
someone had stuck egg
trays all over the ceiling.
On the bumps were tinges
of orange and scarlet, the
remnants of a recently
departed sun.
Whispers of sailors lost
and the love of Aphrodite
mingled in the ozone,
borne on breezes that
had kissed foreign shores.
A heartbeat of tranquillity
brings the memories, with
every kiss of the wave, the
walking , holding of hands
the leaning on craggy
outcrops, those never ever
forgotten words passed in
the innocence of love.
And so in the ambience of
whispers and kissing waves
I walk on, knowing this
beach is not as secluded
as I first thought. That tide
may erase the footsteps of
the past, but the sands of
life are there to walk again.
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