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There is magic in the sand,
The hourglass of the great Atlantic,
That touches the shore of Virginia Beach.
Footprints of distant lovers
That are tales written
On the waves, swallowed,
And returned with the muted sound
Of a favorite song caressing faded memories.

When arabesque foam rides the waves,
And rests upon the sand,
A tale lies within the fingers
That write for young lovers

At three o'clock in the morning.

There are tales that each footprint
Is a newborn life inspired by memories
That spread the grains of sand
That will return only to those
Who believe in the magic of the sand and walk the shore.

For those who walk the golden shores,
The tiny grains of memories
Are reveries like the wailing sound of a muted trumpet,
Or a symphony riding the ocean breeze.

There are tales from the sand
Warmed by time,
Polished to a velvet touch,
And embracing feet of unsuspecting lovers,
Creating emotions erupting into tidal waves of expectancy,
Emotions that were once tidal waves to other lovers
Returning to continue the magic of the sand.

There are tales that the footprints
Resting on the sandy shores are old and new,
And they are the same.
When the moon steaks across the sapphire waters of the great Atlantic Ocean,
And rests on shoulders of young lovers
Pushing their feet into the golden grains of reverie
Their unbridled imagination sings with the muted trumpet
Into the night and their imagination
Is lost in the stardust of the song,

Learn more about this author, Carl Etheridge.
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