Friday, August 26, 2005

Beachcombing--a poem

Beachcombing

by Mark Worden

Gentle breezes riffle the sea,
Wafting the warmth of the sun,
Caressing my bared skin,
As my feet leave a toed trail,
At water's edge.

The shade of a hat protects eyes,
Which scan the surf and tidal flow,
For spiral shells and what nots,
From depths and distances,
Of unknown origin.

It matters not to me,
That treasures I might seek,
Appear, then wash away,
Returned back to the deep,
Before I find them on the shore.

The quest I'm on, a search for things,
More meaningful than shells or stuff,
The flotsom of humanity,
My beachcombing is as a dream,
That brings me great serenity.



Encinitas
8/26/05