Sunday

And what if it rains, she said, at my side
As clouds scurry over the steeple
A shy wind landing leaves at our feet
Eyes squinting towards the beach
Beyond the green blown fields
The dunes; the landward leaning trees;
The barren beauty of the sculpted shore

We are making our way down to the strand
Arms linked, heads bent into the wind
Gravestones observing our descent
To the pebbled causeway
The ever-changing seascape
The ribbed sand; the art of wet footprints;
Spirits of the ocean taking us there

And it doesn't matter if it rains, I said
For the rain must return to the sea
As the first drops splatter the shingle
Shards of light bouncing on the surface
Beyond the rolling surf and restless tide
Shadow sunlight chasing across the sand
Worn out waves gliding to a whimpered sigh

© Declan Whitney 2018