Sunlight danced
with a spiders web,
the last flicker
as clouds darkened,
and skies deepened.
Contoured by a winters cold,
crisp and enduring,
we walked home
amongst restless leaves,
talking relentlessly,
without ever listening,
not even when we said goodbye.

Quick, rushed,
fast moving waves
contrasting
a slow morning,
with mud slides
and rocks falling.
Scatterings
is the now,
amongst dead trees
a snowy white shore
fringed
with frantic on-dines
murkily jiving,
jam packed,
dipping and diving,
crammed linear
between pale skies returning
and a deep forgiveness.

Cotton clouds surround
this suspended stillness
with pebble beaches
and badly cut cliffs,
jagged edges,
crumbled toppings,
mud and sludge collected
as a dark pudding
of land reflecting.

The rains and rivers have been here,
down flowing,
and moved the centuries and millennia.
Have mocked the dinosaurs
as they eroded me
and shown so much more
of what I would have seen before,
but now is the stillness,
all still,
not as it was
frenzied emotions swirling
whirlwinds calling.
Now is the calmness of Sunday mornings,
of four legged friends roaming,
and me worn down to a smooth touch.
Except . Except. Except.
For the manic sea
alive and wonderful,
gleaming light strips dancing,
a perpetual wondering,
with my loving wind
blowing wildly
as this wild child
attempts a deep freeze
and fails miserably
while on a winter shore
it releases me.