The Beach
 

Surf laps the shore,
A rhythmic pulse
All over the world,
Pounding, pounding.

Grinding the ground
Into sand,
Pebbles and shells
Thrown around.

Water attacks
The coast in waves.
The wind cracks
The palms and the heat.

Bodies glisten with oil,
Browning in the sun.
Fingers in the sand,
Warm, soft and granular.

A meeting of the elements,
Comfort and discomfort
Mingle and dance,
Providing pure pleasure.

A delicate contrast
Of azure blue and white,
Of cool shade and warm sand,
Lying, frying in the sun.

Windsurfers glide around
And bathers bob aimlessly,
Care gone for the day,
Or perhaps the week.

Boats coast by,
Sails full of importance,
Ropes taut and wet,
Ignoring the shore.

Shells, broken and whole,
Swept from the depths
And thrown carelessly
Over the rocks and into pools.

Clumps of soft seaweed
Cling closely in coves,
Cool and green and glistening,
In the dim, dank shadows.

Rocks, older than man
Are washed and dried in the sun,
Unchanged to the naked eye,
In a lifetime of gazing.

Gulls float overhead,
Watching and waiting
For nothing in particular.
Life goes on, and on.

The spray greets the light,
To form rainbows, in celebration
Of the sun and the water
Having intercourse.

The oldest clock on earth
Marks time to the moon,
Never to rest,
Or miss a beat.