The sound along the ground,
Abreast of the sound, down
Level with sea bubbles foaming,
Down with sand crabs scuttling
Is hissing, bubbling,

And should you ever lay prone
Below the hissing wave line
And hear these sounds so low,
Along the sandy weathered space,

And feel the cool upon your face,
You’d hear the whisper which does
Not ask of us who beside her,
Lies and looks on high to bluer

At gulls who push and shove,
And cry their high pitched wails,
Demanding bits of morsels tossed,
And in cacophony the peace
Is lost,

We cannot hear the waves at play
Demanding stand unless they pound
Us down into the roil and under
Neath a foaming boil we scrape our

Instead these sounds,
Bubbling, hissing, splishing
Notes, sing to us a rhythmic
Of low angelic notions,

Proximity to the bed of waves,
The sound print of this ocean,
Does crest and fall upon our ears
And from this unique point
Of view,

The sound unfolds as gentle
Or spoken in another tone,
A whispered poem for times
We knew

Contained within the listening
Our fondest memories
In tow
Of sunset shimmer

Long afternoons spent watching
Far horizon,
Deep blue line awash in
Golden splendor
Time after time after time.

About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
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