The met where the sea was strong

and lapped at the shore,

taking it grain by grain,

he was by no means rich

but enjoyed each wave,

each salty tasty swirl,

he took in, the foam on his lips.

 

At Night,

the waves arrived again,

a smell on the air

a scent of brine,

he waited for in the heavy seas,

 

To rest on her beach,

take in her burst of sea

loving that sun and even the

sand in places.

 

But the sun sat –

and it rained in the night

lightly and across the meadows.

When the soft fog settled in

he knew,

He knew

there was trip back

to the sea.

 

Dave

1 Dec 08

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