It was a low tide. The aroma was of wet sand

and seaweed. The rocks lay brazenly exposed,

their sides speckled with barnacles. The

water produced a ripple of waves; a motion

of silence.


A cellophane sky, yellow and pale white,

spread thin over the horizon, appearing

as a luxury of violence, like strangers

lingering on a street corner under dusk lights

in front of store fronts, placid and

without hurry in their steps.


Winter brings early nights and fingerprints

of frost. There is a weight to the air.

The light breezes of summer are waiting

their turn.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s