At the end of the day

The shore line gained, high above wave crashed rocks.

Unsteady feet on an uncertain edge of windblown grass.

Waves in patient lines, queued from the horizon

Shore bound, waiting to land, not knowing where

Gulls wheeling, whooping, shunting, shouting, screeching.

Gave rhythm,

where time was of no concern.

A sky factory painted blue,

was calm and confident;

Lines of textured clouds

with strokes of gossamer white,

Gave peace where there was no conflict.

The sun disappears from view

Tired from balancing on the horizon.

Repainting the whole sky,

Changing every colour,

More shades of red

Than a woman could ever paint on her fingers.

A concoction of colours,

crescendos into symphony

Hotter than iron in a blacksmith’s furnace,

Gossamer white

now toasted hot orange.

Their only moment of glory

in the transient sky.

The world stood still,

Relieved of the day.

Birds now landed

tired of playing

Fat bees fully fed,

no longer buzzed

For it was only the waves,

Sent from far away

where the sun was still shining.

Rhythmically lapped the shore

unable to stop.

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