Perpetual Motion

Thick strokes of flames in a canvas of pink blue sky
where gulls squawk, circle above sea
as dark silhouettes, their distant cries resonate
with waves that roar and crash on white sands.

Wind whistles past, tousling hair,
kissing lips that taste of salt. Gulls cry out,
head for the fishing boat that pulls in.
Small crabs scuttle in a hurry to hide before dark.

Waves rise and crash, stretch and recede
unrelenting they move out to steal spade, slipper
a collector of things found — little left behind,
even untidy white foam disappears.

The sun sinks towards the horizon
Waves stretch further, tumbling castles, ramparts,
their final invasion for the day. A late crab hurries
and disappears into a hole in the sand.