Dreams of seagulls, flying through the sky,
lifted by a breeze,
their lonely cries the essence of a day at the beach.
Flotsam and jetsam washed up at the shore,
what treasures do you bring me, from what exotic place?
Murky green glass fishing float, tangled up in kelp,
Or just a broken clam shell tossed up by a wave?
No matter, all is perfect when I am in this place,
sound of waves, salt spray on my face.
Warm sand underfoot, I walk along the shore,
But in my mind, .....I am a seagull, lifted by a breeze.
White filmy veil drifts silently
in from the water
Fog, caressing the pines
at the shore.
Contours of hills,
now clothed in mystery.
A land dressed in white
for her suitor
the sea,
waiting,
supine at her feet.
Trading gifts of seashells and driftwood
their union is sealed
by the light of the moon
in an ancient symphony
of give and take,
And blessed by
the laughing of the waves.
Distant foghorn blows it's melancholy note,
Signals ships for safety in the darkness.
Half asleep, I am transported by the sound
to the romance of a sea-faring life.
I know I'd never really live that way,
but at night, when the foghorn moans,
seductive in the distance
and dreams seem more real than life,
I feel the lure of far away places,
fragile ships and precious cargo
on a wine-dark sea under indigo skies.
Other ports and other peoples,
exotic places, different lives.
