I can see at the ocean's edge
a display of driftwood,
soaking up the crest
of every wave that comes to shore
where so many remnants
of the water's deep, as would,
gather in the strand as harvest
for every beachside store
seabirds aloft wafting heavy
and sated by the glean
left in every nook and cranny
by little critters just below
under a brisk and salty breeze
as land and sea convene,
a wispy swash paints the stone
as threads of mildew grow
there beneath each wave,
a melting imprint of silty repose,
left by passage through the wash
of it's cool refreshing spray
as the tranquil sandy promenade
squeezes up between the toes
of every barefoot passer-by
who comes along this way
John R Tarter
J