The briny's ebbed and out of reach
and in its wake a fresh clean beach
but left behind and snagged on rock
are slimy strings of bladder wrack.
In rock pools some creatures marooned
and bits of bygone life abound,
like skeletons of crustacean
that once thrived in this vast ocean.
A sandpiper struts on mudflat
as that is where his food is at.
For cone shaped casts he keeps keen eye
knowing that's where a lugworm lie.
His pointed beak is poised to stab
into the mud a worm to grab.
He must be quick to win his fill
for soon returning tide will spill.
Sitting near the ocean's edge,
with my ever present pad and pen,
I watch a lugworm burrow down
through the muddy cracks and crevices
in the wet sand, perhaps creating his own
underground moats and castles.
And like this lowly lugworm, I, too,
burrow down through the sand, searching
in every crack, cranny and crevice
for just the right word to finish my poem.
I run my fingers through the sand,
each grain a word.
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