Edited
.
Golden sands,
from powder-fine to
coarse as grits,
pebbles, stones and
bits of shell,
washed by the sea
back and forth, back and forth,
brushed by the wind
incessantly sweeping,
and burnt by the harsh
heat of a merciless sun.
The crocheted edging of the waves,
lacy white as a sudsy shower,
washes up on the sandy shore
dying slowly as it goes
until, exhausted, it can do no more,
sliding back from whence it came,
slipping backward down again ~
mesmerising movements,
hypnotising moments ~
with seagulls screaming overhead
and diving down to catch their food.
.
©Denise G Allen, 28 January 2014 07:12