• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 12
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Fresh is the wind, though a bit chilly and cold,
Does good to the mind, the sea, I’ve been told.

The boat is dragged up high on the beach,
The last of the tourists have departed;
No crumbs to scavenge the gulls would screech
And scatter by the time winter gets started.

A primordial shade the water would take,
The unspeckled sky an azurer hue;
Lying on the beach I shall make and remake
A pattern with impermanence as the clue.

Green is the sea – roaming much – I’ve come to,
Blue and green memories I shall nurse;
Surrender some to the waves if I’ve to
Just so the past doesn’t turn to a curse.