Poetry ~ Beach Magic I

Beach Magic I

 

Imperfect ~ hair blown over forehead sand caking toes

beach magic.

 

The instruments ~ drift wood relics of usefulness smooth stones balanced by

lazy Sorcerers who have lived it day on day, ~ whistling ribbony blues resistance-less

The whispers ~ the great oratory hanging lightly above infinity points says

everything we would want from friends and family, beyond words.

 

The atmosphere ~ potent ready for magician direction Prospero’s pose ~

‘bring me, tell me, show me, heal the crumpled T-Shirt knot in my luggage.’

The knowing ~ transmission more electric than those wind farms, unfailing

like the first broadcast fuzzily undeniable and resonant.

 

I plough lines with a pointed finger in damp sand, fashion Disney style hearts. Stand in them.

Morgan le Fey’s got nothing on a woman pitching stakes at sunset, and I wait…

as seven PM tide makes its move ~ steady constant deceptive.

 

TF