a constant silky swish

A Constant Silky Swish   or      On My Beach

On my beach

the constant hum and crash

welcomes me.

Sand is rock, hard 

and should grate on my ear,

so much more than a sigh,

as grain rubs grain. 

Instead there is 

a constant silky swish

as some million rough wet grains 

make contact with the rest.

Sand, dry, sifts through my toes,

tactile and begging for some 

interaction and creativity;

a swirl with a stick,

a letter, or even my own name,

for the world to read before the next tide swoops,

or a child chases a ball

through my masterpiece.

I stand still and watch and wait.

Tide in or tide out,

on the make or on the run?

Subtle difference when you stand and watch.

One big wave in ten minutes. It's coming in

I decide.

Simultaneously the waves

surge one at a time, gathering in height,

for an onslaught,

but then they

transform and with a little magic,

become delicate translucent ballerinas.

The peak of each,

waiting, tantalisingly

for the very last moment when, 

with curl and crash

they implode

adeptly avoiding the gliding seagulls.

No wind today,

no spray.

Sometimes

it is what is not here

that is as important as what is.

Wind would whip this surf

and the resulting spray might sting

the face with a salty slap.

Instead two boys,

avoiding the tidal heave,

toss shoes that float about

amongst the froth and ripples at the waters edge.

Their laughter and the far off sky...

sigh...