The beach

No peripheral power inherit in words
comes from tongues rolling in tides
in times of wings and blue jellyfish.
The sea is a dark winter longing.

Groups of seashell singers line the beach
when the first planet sparkles
and the eye that cries for night
settles in sand that shifts no more.

Poetry by Bob
Read 978 times
Written on 2007-01-08 at 00:21

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Nice little poem bob, two very different verses indeed but they enable each other so naturally. Just as nature should, smiling at you, Tai