The shells of the black shore
by lilly-gibbons
Bend low, feel the tide take a swipe,
Retreat, turn, climb the steps to safety,
Stay, let scattered shells guide the way.
There is hope in blends so rare.
Swirling stumps neatly press into the hardened sand.
Barnicles in shallow waters of the seashore
Attach themselves to emptied crab cases.
We mourn the life inside, lost.
Standing with our backs to the ocean,
Toe tipping a game so sure,
Daring to win, edging closer to the thrill.
There is hope only when we reach our fill.