As the tide turned
history was re-written
the victors wrote their name in the sand
and the losers washed out to sea
all was calm or so it seemed
the wind whipped up
white horses charged in a line
at the sand, full of castles, standards flying
children pointing
nothing was spared by the seventh wave

in the pursuit of your dreams
arm yourself
for the nightmares.

Take me to a field of flowers
and
confess your love to me.

With nature as our witness
and time as our officiant.

Hold me as the sweet scent
sways us
and the breeze
tells our story.

-M