The Beach

Seaweed scattered at the
Front of Davy Jones' bay.
People bobbing like apples
in the barrel of his home.
Lost belongings adorn
the surface of the sand.

A lost shirt proving
adequate shelter for
the solitary sand flea.
Aimless wanderers floating
across the horizon
as if their goal lies
at the end of
the sandy beach.

The wind dances
with the wandering figures
as the crashing waves
play a continuous beat.
The song of the peddler
as he jostles his wares
lends a lively tone
to the sounds of the sea.

Running children
their steps in time to
the beeping horn
of the ice-cream man.
Dripping cones of sugary sweetness
provides a reprieve from
the scorching heat.

And the solitary writer
seating on the hard packed
seat of sand, taking it all in.