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Poetry Pleases: The Empty Beach

Merle Parkin contemplates the beauty of a beach that has been manicured by the cleansing tempests of the night.

How manicured this scatheless crescent sand,
Swept by the cleansing tempests of the night,
By silver wings of transient sea-birds fanned,
Awaiting in the dawn’s ethereal light
The phoenix sun, to warm its surf-fringe white.

Unpeopled now, immaculate and bare
Of summer’s detritus: the tracks of feet,
Sands glisten in the spindrift-laden air,
A wet hiatus, where the wavelets meet
The storm-wrack, ocean-piled and housewife-neat.

In blemishless abeyance lies this page,
Poised to embrace the stories wrought by Day
And nullified when evening storm-tides rage,
And weather-gods their nightly contests play
To render derelict this wind-lashed bay.


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