Low ripples creep in eager waves,

Reclaiming grains of wind-blown sand,

To lay them flat within the damp, cemented matrix,

By degree, each one,

In exposed space,

Is over-run,

Again with water weight,

Where fine currents caress and roll,

The grains that had once been free.

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And so I walked the full extent of the tide,

To where once-fronds of bladder wrack lie,

Fallen branches where air balloons find their specific gravity awry,

A rippling sandscape sculpt by rolling water,

Carpeted with greening algal strands plumose in the quiescent remaining pools,

Seagulls at the edge,

Scouring newly exposed beach,

Beneath the dark-faced island.

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Bright sunshine falls across grass fountains,

Sparkling against the dark green sod,

And dune crakes chorus their fishwife chatter,

Conversation with talking but no listening,

Sweet trill and chaff and coarse, guttural croak,

Pervades the furrowed dunes,

Whilst sea falls in wavelets upon the shore,

At pre-turn flat sea,

Beneath the dark faced island.

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They stand,

Hand-in-hand,

In their elder days,

absorbing view of sea, of sky, of sand,

of bird, of wave of weed,

Sky to the horizon,

Looking forward,

Peace, a shroud of the land,

surrounding them,

enshrining them,

At peace together in

their Elder Days.

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