The brown neglected sand

is a perfect spot,

looking out across

the shallow bay.

The wind is blowing sand,

like old memories,

into my eyes.

There is a moan in the wind,

as troubling as

the person who sits

limp like driftwood

and as raveled as

seaweed that

lies dead and uninviting

with the smell of

pungent ocean.

Clouds form and

drops of rain pat the sand

with a touch

as gentle as a lover.

And in the distance

the outline of the shore

is covered in mist

that drifts uncertainly,

hiding and revealing,

covering and then infused

with colour again,

as the sunlight takes

hold on the clouds and

brings me back again.

30/3/2010