“Seashells,” Albert Joseph Moore, WikiArt.

Ocean-edge is my dwelling place, lapping
Surf meets sand, here in quiet footsteps
I tread, where wetness persists, rushing
And retreating surf, footprints washed
Away. Was I really there? Perhaps I am
Invisible, without substance, vaporous,
Seagrass thin, rising effortlessly to cloud
And light, soul sailing on sea breeze.

On lonely stretches of sand, I linger,
Narrow isthmus ocean-flat, no strength
Against storms, over-washing waves,
Meeting, touching surf, vulnerable sea-
Grass clumps. What meaning does it
Hold? Past or present, transience often
Unperceived, memories of ancient worlds,
Distant voices yearning for new life.

“Ocean-edge is my dwelling place, lapping surf meets sand…”

Ocean dawn returns, reassuring rising
Light, moon-side of waves appear dark,
Clinging to night, silver moon fading or
Lost amongst billowing sea-clouds, as
Wingéd seabirds move from feathered
Sleep to flying low along beaches. Thus,
Seashores are my home, surf and foam,
Few footprints in wet sand.

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