by Cheryl Brand

Created on: October 07, 2008

Oceanside

The walls are damp with the smell of salt

the chairs on the deck are brined of a sort

Mist is coming over my roof,

and birds fly overhead.

Crash go the waves against the surf

of the wave from before and again -

sound of thunder it seems to me

when they all go crash against the sand.

Wind whipping up the sand into

piles for children to play with friends

whistle through the weeds and up

to the hills and back down again.

Seagull sitting atop a post

as if to say "I'm in charge",

try to take me like a soldier

that has been entrusted with a task.

Kites, kites everywhere, as people

try to lift theirs higher

all colors, all sizes, all lengths of string

mirroring the age and skill of each flyer.

Mites, mites playing in sand

making a castle of tiers

Bucket an spade are his tools

With blissful absence of fear.

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