Friday, 13 November 2015

A winter poem

Winter Beach

Only the hardy come,
the locals with dogs,
small children skipping,
never feeling the cold.

The well washed sand
knows every imprint,
salt strokes each outline,
tide turns in soft fold.

The wind picks up pace
screams in from the north
rucking up sea spray,
spilling stories of old.

And as night comes early
the rain sets in,
battering the coastline
as the storm takes hold.

©Heather Walker

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