Morning Meditations.

I sift softly through strands of sand,
I am at the edge of the oldest of boardwalks,
The light fades silently over the lapping waves
In the black, orange, yellow, gold, pink-ish moon horizon.

I stand.  I stare at the vastness of Creation.

I feel...

                                    Lonely.

Where is the boat I know so well?
The little boat that takes me always safely back to shore?
It is gone.  Broken in the fast and thankless waves.
My hair is flat and crusted in sea salt
My lips chapped and pale
My teeth chatter in the cold, wet, dampness of being soaked without a blanket.

I sit and sob.
I stand and stare out to sea again.

It is night now.

The stars sweep in like deafness in the face of a passing train.

White.

A sad, grey moon.

Blue streaks in the night-time: moonbeams.

The beach is empty save driftwood and the dead skeletons of rejected and bone-picked silver-fish.

I walk.

In the distance it is clear - some old man is building a fire.
I want to run toward it
To warm my hands, face, hair, neck, ears, body...
But if I run, I fear it may disappear.