The Edge

I love to stand on the ocean shore
Where the edge of the continent,

The very end,

Meets the edge of the sea

And then bubbles and froths with bits of seafoam and sand.

The shells swim in the surf

Caught between one edge

And the other.

Tumbling frantically toward the sand

Clinging for a moment till the wavelets pull them back.

The dance is constant,

The foamy water, the rolling shells,

The sand waiting warm and deep to rest them.

Till the waves finally toss them too high for the sea to reclaim

And they are safe.

I often feel like the silvery shells

Escaping the vivacious surging of the sea

Tumbling toward the warmth and rest of the earth

A buoyant bit of flotsam forever caught in the shallows,

On the edge

written by me around 2006, after a visit to Nags Head, N.C.

Spindrift

I do not live by the ocean

But I can conjure up it's sounds and smells

At will.

I see the pelican patrol wheel by,

the morning sun glinting on crests of gray-green water,

shadows in the surf, swimming silently.

I hear the high thin trill

Of seabirds floating on currents of air

and I inhale the scent of salt and seaweed

Sun and wind and sand combine

and create a breathtaking backdrop

for a surging sea.

written by me about the same time
(feeling a little homesick for the Outer Banks)

I took the picture when Robert and I took a little pleasure trip this fall.
Dedicated to the Beach Lovers in my family-'specially the Williams