I measure my life,
out flowing salt tides.
Their melodies
are sea shanties,
they sing to me.
As shingle scales
play percussive
under the waves.
And the sea cleans,
geological as purposed
rough cat tongues.
As leavings, memories
of clouded sea glass.
Precious coloured jewels,
treasure amongst pebbles.
Sitting on a rock,
you can almost
taste the quiet
foreshore.
It carries notes of sea
and hints of breeze
that started long ago,
over sand and under
a crescent moon.
Inhaled becomes a smile,
it reaches my eyes.
Exhaled, my past woes
go into that sea.
A taker of grief, a
litmus of future truth.
©️ Dai Fry 22nd June 2020.