23 October 2012
Small ripples of blue fill the ocean,
Each one advancing in carful motion.
Once or twice a boat passes slow,
A bird or two treads the sand below.
The way it runs through my fingers like water,
The girl who passes, the fisherman's daughter.
Brightly coloured towels lay flat in the dunes,
Each wave passes rightly, controlled by the moons.
As the suns falling, the warmth turns to shadow,
They'll come back later do the same tomorrow.
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I don't like the beach... xx
Ripples Of Blue • Opuss № I