I wait and wait
and wait for the turn of the brine tide
and bored, I turn and wait no more.
I walk back home,
with a wooden fork
and open vinegared chips.

I am a soft sandal
You are pebble beaches

I am a lace parasol
You are brutal high gales

I am a yellow sundress
You are sudden hail stones

I am scented sunscreen
You are cumulus clouds

I am Mr Whippy
You are a cloud of gulls

You are relentless
But I will adapt

The weak sun and clouds
A blanket from the back seat
It's your warmth I miss

Seagulls are massive
Intrepid and audacious
I carry the scars

Wrinkled and 60
From another century
Nothing has changed

One expensive stamp
Short missives over Assam
Wishing you were here

The second best place, I find,
to cry openly undetected,
thereby avoiding unwanted
concerns, is a pier.

You won't stick out, as staring out
to sea isn't that uncommon
and tears are a typical reaction
to the sting of salt on the breeze.

Fellow pier folk will leave
you be, alone with the past
and the uncertain sea.

I woke up
before the sun did.

Purple darkness blotted my vision
as I rolled out from under the
warm comforter.

The cold air seeped
through my sweater
the closer I padded to
the window.

Parting the curtains a crack,
I looked out to the parking lot
of the motel.

Thick, greenish-white mist
enveloped the pine trees
and the lonely car shop
across the street.

It was like looking through
a frosted, glass shower door.

Fog comes on little cat feet?
More like huge tiger paws.
The paws of a white tiger,
looking for lost prey.

Too bad for the tiger,
I'm too smart to get lost.

I crest the sand dune
breath catching in my chest.
A sigh of relief,
my eyes consume the sight.

The ocean is so blue.
So vast.
So loud, yet
quiet. Like white noise.

Joy bubbles up into my chest,
onto my smiling lips
and squinting eyes.

My senses buzz with satisfaction.
The smell of sunbaked sand,
of the fresh ocean air.

The wind is cold and the sun is warm.
The sand, scalding hot on
the surface, but cool once
I bury my feet deeper.

Peoples voices and seagulls calls
are muted by
the waves crashing against the shore.

The weightless blue sky,
The deep blue ocean,
and the soft white sand.
Simple enough, but
I can't look away
and I want to stay.

the night cracks the sun
like an egg into a pan
over the ocean

The Cornish shore …
Where golden sand lies next
To dappled grey granite rock,
Where the sea breeze sweeps
And the mussels flock,
Where the rock pools gather
And the small ***** patrol,
Where the white foam curls
And the breakers roll,
Where the sea birds call
And the salt spray stings,
Where the seaweed sunbathes
And the limpet clings,
Where a stream’s course meanders,
And reflects the azure sky,
Where a starfish gazes skywards
And white clouds go scudding by.

By all means take treasured memories,
But please take nothing more,
And leave nothing but your footprints
On this sacred Cornish shore …