I rhythm the sweep
of a sirrus of clouds
like a bird
that is linked
to a thin
of the wind

tunes of the air
happening
on a seagull's
nosey
beak


I incredible the mind
with shadows I find
on a thin
that is washed
on a beach
in the night

bow of a boat
surfing
on an ebbtide's
song
of the sea


I consider the stars
their halos like sun
surrounding
far mountains
with a dawn's
slip
of light

inkling of gloam
hiding
on a falcon's
othering
wing


I penumbra remains
from my beachcomber's walk
like the moon
in my mouth
and the age
of my days

sounding of surf
high tiding
yet again
and again
and again