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