Lay bare foot crisp on roasted stems

of wild grasses, dust trod blades

once herald of lush pasture soon

now fallen heroes of the storm.

Strewn before each stride performed

not noted save the random bur

or hidden needle of the pine

bows lying over path by path.

Inviting all to gates below

where creaks have lived these forty years

escaping every visit's turn

soil scraped and worn by eager sole

sandy stone denied a hold

by constant tread and nature's will

decreed the sands should shift with time.

And here the wrought and twisted line

of iron within a landscaped home

long wrapped and held by vine and weave

of dry, deceased and performed acts

that cycle to it year on year

supported firmly on its frame.

Then though the kissing gate to open lands

where rolling down and broken rock

invite a quickening of pace

destination driven now

seen vividly by memory's eye

the sense of perfect day on day

by scent and sound the beach arrives.

Transported back, forever child.