Wednesday, 11 November 2009

That Quiet Time

That quiet time.
Before dawn, barefooted, viewing as far as my eyes can reach,
A silver grey moon silently watches my every step,

Half-buried homes of sea creatures, mixing silently with a carpet of blue and grey, moving endlessly,
Or so it seemed.

Scores of seagulls on the shore flapped their wings,
Starch white,
Some picking morsels from the sand.
I move, exploring, sodden sand oozing between my toes.
Overhead, a moan from an earlier storm that caused the Earth to cry out in relief.
I sigh. A pleasant one for no dust clogs up my throat.
Behind me, my wandering trail is blurred and indistinct,
Slowly eradicating the telltale signs of visitation.

By Rebecca Showell

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