Walking On The Beach
The sand hot ,scratches and burns
Until I reach the cool compacted wet sand of the shoreline

The force of the waves dragging the sand from under foot
gives the strange sensation of movement
As the mush squishes between my toes

Shoreline littered with broken shells
bite at my feet
Bending to pick up a handful of seaweed only to find
it slippery and oozes past my grasp

FIRST FLOWER

After a great to-do beneath the surface of the ground
the loam cracked and shook, one minute green tip shot up
the thrust of a sword searching in circular movement for the sun,
that spinning ball of fire with leaping flames
that lights up our rotating earth in spasms rhythmical,
all matter in the woods is ever moving, turning,

SEPTIC TANK

He staggers blindly down the street, thick , grey fog swirls round.
The silence cheats him of his sense of hearing , not a sound .
He knows that if he uses the old walking stick he'd found
Then, like a blind man he could make his way

The bridge had washed away, now how to reach the other bank
He comes to the decision to cross by the septic tank
Knows he is near when all around him rises smell so rank
That he can feel his nose start to decay.

The ocean and it's beaches
what then is more wonderful
Thunderous waves crashing on to the shore
Beating the sand into submission
Sounding much like a violent storm

The hiss left by the breaking waves
As it scurried back to the sea

The air is filled with the cries of seagulls
In search of food
Radios from the beach dwellers produce a cacophony
of sound as different stations come together

Kinesthetic/ First flower.

See how snow edged woods
display such white array of dazzling carpets,
wide, beneath the taller bare twigged trees
they spread their happy bells,
full dresses for the ball,
the grand explosive dance of spring
revolving in a waltz,
to turn the minds of birds and beasts
upside down, downside up,
round and round the round about of growth,
that rises, slowly rises up to light.

Out for an early morning ramble
on an overgrown lane
The sky grey and overcast
menacing with rain.

I happen upon a long forgotten
and broken-down old barn.
pausing to rest a spell
I reflect upon this scene

Rusty tin roof sway backed and
sagging as an old saddle horse.
Tin edges warped and curled back
flutter in the wind.