The Beachcomber

[Beaux Reflets]

The Beachcomber.

Grass leans, swept in salt wind scrape,
Below grey clouds of morning.
Where land mass reaches rising sea,
And gulls cry, as in warning.

Shells lie scattered on the shore,
Blue purpled rock lies weeping.
Swirling water at its foot,
Pushing, rushing, creeping.

Frothing fingers shifting sand,
Wet pebbles beached, honing.
Ebbing tides to and fro,
The seascape always homing.

Footprints blur as edges cup in,
Watery arches spilling.
Wave sweeps retreating steps,
Again, beachcomber's willing.

Seaweed roll on driftwood spire,
Heaves (no longer roaming).
Wet fingers sift golden sand,
While deep blue ocean's foaming.

Piece of coal, chunk of Jet?
Shifting sounds, wave chatter.
Jewels wet and gleaming bright,
Mid dreams of other matter.



Now where's my camera  - Nice to see others enjoy writing creative stuff