lacey sea foam tossing through windy air

aging man with walking stick and poet's mop of gray hair trudges through sand...
halts, leaning on his stick , observing an old woman with shriveled body
and age-riddled skin stretched out on a giant towel trying to get a tan

[Title Card: Maybe this man, old tattler, esteemed former laureate, is wondering if he could make a sonnet out of this sight. ]

he walks on, stooping to pick up a conch shell near his feet
looks at it, turns it clock and counter, peers into it

holds shell to ear
starts slow meditative amble towards mist-waving distance

[Title Card: Doesn't it seem he might be hearing humming of every thing's destiny in the brittle pink alleys?]