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.