In the morning's chill
I hear the wind's sough, the cough of crows
swirling through the street lamp flickered dawn,
the finger drum of rain impatient
against the window
and the whispered sigh of sand singing
down the dunes black against the dawngold sky.
See the bloodred cliffs scatter flowers
in the salt foam white breaking
across the driftwood
and the outcrying surf calling welcomes
to the wanderer
and wonder where, as the sand climbs,
my feet can take root -
find home again.
If you've any comments on this poem, Alan Papprill would be pleased to hear