Waves lap against moonlit sandcastles,
Destroying battlements with gentle foaming caresses.
And alone on the shingle rests a man,
Who juggles three pebbles, and smiles at the sea.

A ghost-town resort, as Winter draws near.
Shutters and boards seal out the cold.
Playful lights flicker on the pier,
With only one pair of eyes to admire them.

He hurls the stones far out to sea,
And reaches for the bottle by his side.
With a glug, and a grin and a wipe on his sleeve,
He lies back to talk to the moon.

He has many friends, and he likes to chat.
Birds and trees and clouds all listen.
And he tells them his feelings, his hopes and his dreams;
Then hides from his enemy, the evil sea breeze.

Seagulls.
His alarm call.
And he wakes up and smiles.
Shakes sand from his blanket,
And walks to the port.

Nobody talks, as he cleans up the mess.
Sweeping the ground, and watching the boats.
But he never stops trying to break through the walls,
To rip off their blinkers and just say “Hello!”.

As dusk falls, and with his bottle in hand,
He walks the deserted shoreline, whistling to the wind.
He sits and hugs himself, inside a shabby blanket,
And happily greets the waves, as they lull him into sleep.

Advertisements