It happens so quickly.

It happens so quickly.

The blue sky,

A clear view across the bay

A glimpse of herringbone

On the far horizon.

White caps

Toss wild white mane,

Like a stampede

Of moorland ponies.

Sea salt hangs in the air

Drying to a white crust

On exposed skin.

Unfettered sand,

Constantly on the move,

Uncovers the bones of old ships,

Their broken ribs foundering

In the shallows,

Eaten away by molluscs and rust.

And you watch,

Sad old eyes rheumy with

The memory of other days,

Diving beneath different waves,

Before the storm of living

Had weather beaten

Your soul.

Then comes the change,

As the deep grey falls

Like a wet curtain,

Heavy and thickly felt.

A lightly falling mist

Becomes a torrent of

Sand blasted spray.

It is time to

Beat a less than genteel retreat

And ponder the truth

Of leaving old places

In the past,

Where they belong

Their haunting beauty

Never quite living up

To the legacy of yesterday.

Going back is not the same

As moving toward

But if you are bold,

And tread your own path,

Where ever it leads

Is the place

The truth of your story

Will always be told.