The slow breakers rolled somberly,
sighing of lost love and sailors,
up on to the smooth sand dunes,
stretching silently for miles,
themselves troubled in thought
sitting, searching
the stars showing in the darkening eastern sky
for some answer.
In the deepening twilight,
as the reds, oranges, and purples,
the sun a grape,
are crushed slowly, unyielding,
a crab sits on shore.
In his soul, squeezed as sunset,
he cries.
The salt water recedes
from the dunes.
Tears of Earth
fill the ocean,
the pains,
prickling deep,
a silent stream.
Bathed in sorrow, the land weeps,
wondering when He will end
and begin anew all things.
The glow of the last light glints off glass
and shells, discarded homes,
discarded lives,
gleaming bright,
a macabre beauty, the detritus of years.
The wind whispers sonorously,
settling in for peace, rest;
the day finishing, again,
labors at an end,
temporary death awaiting
the morning rebirth,
foreshadowing the Day.
The rub of grasses,
gentle white noise,
a lullaby for the
lone crab
who jingles
alone
among creatures past,
scrabbling high to see the sun’s rays
longer, still.
Under the pinpricks of distant glories,
on a wind-and-sea-swept swath of beach,
the crab sees
his final sunset.
Isle of Write logo art courtesy of @PegasusPhysics
