Songs in Sand

by HemmingPlay

And still the waves
slip ashore,
singing their
conspiratorial whispers
between grains of sand.
The wind slides in
from the deep,
empty places,
haunted and lonely,
cold and clean
like a wet finger around


the spotless rim of a
fine crystal wine glass.
I’m 68 and might
drop dead at any moment.
I look at a
beautiful woman
and sigh, young again.
I know what I’ll miss.

Visit: Hemmingplay

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