Painted at the beach

It skirts the edge of the inlet,
no further thought encumbers
while the mind unfastens, watching
the plover ascend to bloom
on an unmarked sky.

It’s the sun kissing water perhaps
or the humid warmth; I unfurl a parasol
embellished with intricate filligree
and wonder if the open novel, yet unread
lends atmosphere,

for I feel like in an Austenesque
painting of exquisite technique.
My toes brushing wet
my left hand caressing sand
sculpted to shape by the wanton wind,

like saddles on horses on sandy beaches.
But it is the riot of sounds now
that mark time with the pulsing heart,
plumes ascending descending,
bird chasing bird in the sky,

encircling, giddying, rushing,
like Ganymede orbiting
burgeoning Jupiter
amid the the scent of a salty sea,
signalling only, the passage of time.

Towards the dimming of the light,
the moon isn’t shy.
I heave a sigh at the rising tide,
the rolling waves , frothy surf.
I lay down, exhausted, now a mere palimpsest, until another day.

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