Walking the Shore
I like to wake early in the morning
When the clouds part to let in the pale light
And listen to the crashing waves
Breaking harsh on the lonely sand.
I take my daily walk and see the mist
As it wafts lazily along the shore.
Each dawn I stroll along the shore
Thinking I need to do� this morning,
While playing peek-a-boo the mist
Slips in and out of the shadowy light
Creeping over the damp-cold sand
To go dancing upon the gray waves.
The crash of white-foamed waves
Upon the deserted wild shore
Sculpts patterns in the sand--
Fingerprint ripples that, this morning,
Are cast in bas-relief by the light
And sheltered by the mist.
Sometimes my mind is like the mist
Now skimming over the aqua waves,
In full sail beneath the morning light
Far away from the line of shore.
As my feet tread in the morning,
I hear the crunch of sand.
The wind scoops up particles of sand,
Sifts them through the departing mist
I begin to see more people this morning
Now turning harsh, the waves
Slap angrily against the shore
In the increasingly strong light.
The sun has come from the clouds, its light
Drying the last patches of damp in the sand
As beachgoers and children crowd the shore
Taking the place of the vaporized mist.
Surfboards and sailboats populate swelling waves
The babbling of fifty radios fills the morning.
Hot, fueled by the brilliant light,
Scorching my bare feet on the sand
I retreat from the crowded shore.
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