Beachcomber

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Beachcomber
 
The shores of sleep last night
Were not of soft white sand,
Strewn with intriguing driftwood,
Magical wave-smoothed rocks
And shining wine-coloured weed
Cast up from the deep.
No. The shores of sleep last night
Were strewn for miles
With the wrecks of dreams,
The hulks of hope
And fragments of fantasies,
Lying like beached and decaying whales.
Some looked whole and entire
Till I peered through portholes
And found them empty, no more than shells.
I would be a beachcomber,
Gathering material for my work
As I patrol this shoreline,
But I cannot work with this.
I will wait till the next storm
Washes the strand clean
Of cast-up wreckage
And leaves me with the flotsam
I can fashion and transform.

I don’t think so, somehow…

 I saw this sign today on my walk back from the beach. It’s been a few degrees above freezing, with a lazy wind.

I am told that this special beach is used all year round, but I never go that far, and turn back before my dog encounters someone who is not expecting a cold wet nose somewhere usually hidden….

 

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