From The Beach

Nature is the best of artists, 

able to render down to beauty

the decayed life forms of the past

into a form that can grace my walls and shelves

and remind me of the stories about where I found them,

where they washed up.

Maybe they tell stories to each other.

I strain to hear them,

strain to hear

the trees from Loch Ellen

once blown by the wind 

now rustling silently.

But I think the dragon fish can hear them.

He looks as if he’s speaking, 

telling them all

about his journey 

from a living tree

to driftwood on the shore

and now he’s here on my wall.

The bird soars above them.

Once he lay on the shore beside them

but now he’s heading upwards

searching for the tree he used to be.

And every shell on every beach

can tell a tale of it’s sea journey

and the creatures which called it home.

Time ran out for them

rendered them down to beauty.

The rest lie waiting

for the next wave to break.

And so it goes.


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