Circular Tides

Beach Bum

Sea oats on the windswept dune.
Feathery spumes of cresting swells,
Dissipate like memories slightly out of tune,
With long years through which we dwell.

Sea salt permeates the January air.
A rime of frost on driftwood and shells,
As I walk the lonely strand so fair,
Seeking solace, I hear a solitary ship’s bell.

Gliding gulls skim the frothing sea.
Aeolian currents, frigid and sharp,
Whip sand and foam, to swirl about me,
Like my thoughts, dancing to an Irish harp.