A/N: beaches.....more poetic drabble, nothing spectaculer.

Footsteps

Footsteps,
steady Footsteps,
not hurried,
nor rushed.
The waves have
no patience for
rush, hurry, faster.
Here
is the place for
Slow, calm, serene.
If one
would care to defy
the waves,
they would be swept away,
away to a place
where hurry is uncontrolled,
where rush is unpredictable,
where faster is almost too fast.

The footsteps,
those that belong to a wisher,
a dreamer,
the footsteps stop
at a place where
three waves
are one;
one from left,
one from right,
one from straight ahead,
three meeting in a triad of power.

The words,
the words that appear
to the wisher,
to the dreamer,
pull gently on the eyelids
that flutter shut,
shape imagination
into reality.

The waves,
the waves come up,
leaving a higher mark
than before,
almost
to the knees,
forcing
the dreams and wishes,
the imagination,
away to let reality
seep through.

The footsteps,
reluctantly, the footsteps retreat
back to the sand.
Before,
they wandered;
Now,
they return,
fading inland.

The footprints,
the footprints are all that’s left now,
the gift of the Wanderer.

The footprints,
the footprints made in the sands of time,
to be washed away by the waves of memory,
and then replaced by the next wanderer.

The waves,
the waves steal up the sand,
to take the Wanderer’s gift,
and retreat to wait for another.

©August 2004.