The shore line gained, high above wave crashed rocks.
Unsteady feet on an uncertain edge of windblown grass.
Waves in patient lines, queued from the horizon
Shore bound, waiting to land, not knowing where
Gulls wheeling, whooping, shunting, shouting, screeching.
Gave rhythm,
where time was of no concern.
A sky factory painted blue,
was calm and confident;
Lines of textured clouds
with strokes of gossamer white,
Gave peace where there was no conflict.
The sun disappears from view
Tired from balancing on the horizon.
Repainting the whole sky,
Changing every colour,
More shades of red
Than a woman could ever paint on her fingers.
A concoction of colours,
crescendos into symphony
Hotter than iron in a blacksmith’s furnace,
Gossamer white
now toasted hot orange.
Their only moment of glory
in the transient sky.
The world stood still,
Relieved of the day.
Birds now landed
tired of playing
Fat bees fully fed,
no longer buzzed
For it was only the waves,
Sent from far away
where the sun was still shining.
Rhythmically lapped the shore
unable to stop.
© Paul T Sowden 2019
