a long stretch of beach
not the sandy white
relaxation dust of the islands
but a grayish -cold kind-
bits of sharp shells and slimy foam
seaweed rolls in with the waves
wraps around unsuspecting feet,
spray cold and bitter,
bejewels the driftwood and beach-logs
with a scintillating shawl of gleaming gems
aroma from the local fish-n-chips wafts up shore
a lone, dismal ford parked outside,
tired radio sings an old keith whitley song,
an ancient, handwritten sign,
tattered and washed out,
warped from the humidity and age,
advertises all you can eat halibut for 3.99-
unmoved by the hustle and bustle
it sits, content
an ageless beauty, known by few, but missed
by many
