Rolling crests froth into a white soup
as waves crash
On the shore a subtle thunder and cool mist
belie the frenzy of the water.
The hot summer sun illuminates
a beachscape rife with pleasure
and the dank briny scent of wet seaweed.
Were it not for the clockwork thunder of the waves
and the silence in between
my soul may rest,
but a resting soul cannot be hear.
The Bird's Song 