The Beach

Along the water's edge, the grey waves Break noisily in a white foam spray, Curling carefully like well-permed hair. Driftwood carried on to the shingle Envelops the wind-blown plastic and Frames torn pictures from worn magazines. Gifts such as these on the rising tide, Heaps and tangles of modern life, Invade the left-lying debris, the Jumbled remains of day-trippers. Kindred souls and urban litter louts Leave the evidence of their presence, Making the beach dirty and desolate. No one finds beauty among such dross; Only the screaming seagulls come to Pick through the scattered waste but leave Quite aggrieved and wailing plaintively. Returning to the rooftops, they wait Statue-like for the home-coming boats, To scoop up fish spilling from the nets. Unsullied shingle emerges as the Vast armies of tourists disappear. Winter's tidal surges help the Xenophobic beach to purge itself. Year end renewal refreshes the Zest for life along the water's edge.