This gentle, perfect place for drifting, for playfulness, for sculpting, digging, pounding, kicking, every angle pristine sand, fresh poetic energy.
Lines of vines cavort with the tides, sea-pink blossoms roar up. Tall stems arch, lift, wave me through on view, private too,
brought home on canvas not so long ago.
Wind-blown debris intrudes between the weeds: cigarette butts, crumpled plastic, shiny shards of crockery, firework shells, rusty beer cans, sun-baked fish bones, and needles. I move hesitantly, collect what I can.
This change is painful. Salt-soaked, heavy in my hair, the sheen upon my skin stings,
smears my eyes with goodbye, I crouch small, curl inside.
Thousands of tiny ripples catch my shadow, exactly what is lost: the end to what I think of this… place.
It is early morning, humid. The fog thickest then. A day without sun or rain.
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