wind spun waves crash
and surge
in perpetual rhythm
pulling the pebbles
from under the feet
until we fall as
the seventh wave towers
and breaks
into orange
stained water
at the fringe the shore
from soft sandstone
cliffs etched
and leached
after storms
and we talk
where flint glistens
under the sun
and we finger the shapes
as the wind snatches
our things
there is laughter again
as the beach
gives once more
as it has before
my beach
beyond
the town by the sea
My Devon Life 