I sat down not so long ago,
upon a beach to watch the sea,
the lulling waves of tide's return,
began to lap my sodden feet.
I stood up there and walked along,
the broken shells and sticky sand,
to reach a higher tidal point,
my notebook and my pen in hand.
I wrote my thoughts of what I saw,
the bluey green of water there,
the brown and rock-strewn wetted mass,
of grass topped cliffs at which I stare.
Behind me is a grassy Dune,
leading back to evergreen,
a forest where the trees are tall,
and all is quiet and serene.
In the Rock Pools littered 'round,
are fossils both alive and dead,
an ammonite found in the weeds,
a hermit crab pokes out it's head.
And as the waves come crashing in,
just like the years that have all passed,
the sun is red and I go home,
as the twilight fails to last.
My notepad now is old and worn,
the words look like they're writ in rust,
and like the shells and rocks and cliffs,
it crumbles into yellow dust.
Author notes
This was written when I found a load of crumbling old Biology notes on a place in Anglesey called Newborough.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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WOW!
Well I can definately understand the curse of writers block my dear poet. I have just come off of a rather long "vacation" myself. Yet I think that your latest poem fairs better than mine. you did a wonderful job. rhyme and meter are positively graceful and it provides a very sureal setting and feeling. i loved:
I stood up there and walked along,
the broken shells and sticky sand,
to reach a higher tidal point,
my notebook and my pen in hand.
and...
My notepad now is old and worn,
the words look like they're writ in rust,
and like the shells and rocks and cliffs,
it crumbles into yellow dust.
wonderful job! Writers block can sometimes build up to the most beautiful poems.
~Sorrow~
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