waves come in, into the shore, rub up against silent musings

all the unspoken stories, the final ones, left behind- lines drawn in the sand

the willet and the sanderling, the small and gentle plover,

sea gulls come and mark them over, just in case, God didn’t see, or care,

or wasn’t listening, and tears away the words while picking for gems

left, lost behind, in the breeze, in the lines drawn in the sand,

on the shore while waves come in, rubbing up against all the small stones,

the fine grains, the powder soft grit, shells and driftwood,

until the tide rolls out and in and out and in and out and in

and some bird carries the words freely and quietly away

into the expanse of blue nothing they call a sky,

but sometimes a few of those words which slip and fall away

find themselves washed ashore again, spelled out amongst the seaweed,

unearthed from some watery grave, where

perhaps it should have stayed, but still that is how

I come to find myself silently musing over

your words once more, and they follow me again, and the waves come in.