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Apr 2018
the sea flows in,
rolls thunderous waves
against the shore until the
sands are buried in the
deepening water
and the grey rocks
can no longer be seen.

each wave is like
the row of an audience
in a theatre, whistling to
the shrieks of the wind.

it is winter and the
rushing tide
melts in the cold
below a steely mist
that the broad sky
wears like a mask,
gathering her skirts
of cloudy inks.

i hear the water fall
and i sense that iā€™m alone
with the crying tide,
watching as it speeds
to the shore, spraying
its foamy mist
in the air.

i am isolate, drowning
in the cloudy thunders
of the waves, hearing
the mighty barrels
hiss and whir, dreaming
of love.
happy easter everyone
beth stclair
Written by
beth stclair  England
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