Waves lash the deserted shore,
Gulls hovering, riding the wind,
Screeching as they dive for fish,
Or scrabble amongst each other
For a piece of muscle or clam.
Foam flecks the pebbled beach,
Its bubbling sound fizzes
Like a lemonade bottle just opened.
Then crackles against flotsam.
Rough branches, ripped and tossed
In the tide, dig sand depressions,
Circles, shaped by ocean currents.
Winds whistle, strafing across dunes.
Eddies of sand puff into the air,
Strewn across ridges, clinging
To dune grass, yellowed by sun,
Blown by gales.
This is the unquiet sea,
An ocean of tides dragged
By Lunar forces, this way,
That way, carving out coastal patterns,
Determining where land resists
The pull of oceanic forces.
The Master of This World.
Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. January, 2016.