A Time Like Before
In the dead of the coastal morning
When fish surface to breathe the flotsam,
My head and hands belong to the dawn;
We know this place as a brief stop
For coffee and chat, while watching the
Pregnant cranes skim the surface
To fill their already swollen stomachs;
The cranes now heavy, pass silently,
The only noise my thoughts about
This meeting and where the blown sand
Will travel, on the noisy café’s floor;
Where are we going with this?
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2016
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