the tide rises, the tide falls | an oceanic literary magazine

Thunder drum beats
on the ocean
a bombardment of droplets
thrash the surface...

hillwalking together,
toward the edge...

I'm drenched in angst each time I skirt the bay.
Some unforgiven sin still twists me back...

the blackest night falls
after a day of sail-boats and snorkels...

Stare at the sand long enough
and you’ll see glimmers of hope...

Morning tide and I am drunk,
already drunk and unsteady...

There's a storm brewing under her skin
and the water is dragging me in...

"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul."
Emily Dickinson...

I am born of salt and spray,
young limbs give way to...

seashells
dreams return...

low tide laps the shore
children tugging...

Gather close, my whispering tribe,
in the colors of a sun burning...