by John Grey
The beach is made whole by their cantankerous flight.
The shelf bounty is not enough.
The incessant waves are only part of the story.
Forget the touch the sour green seaweed brings.
The beach cries out for broad white wing and squabbling tongue,
craves the blood-red beak, the slate-gray body.
Without the pecking, the nimble footprints,
this is just another indeterminate landscape
fooled by salt and spray into thinking it's a shore.
Boats keep their distance.
The ocean merely hints at what its depths conceal.
But, first glimpse of sun, the birds arrive.
First glimpse of birds, the beach is here.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.
Pieces Inspired by this Image
'With Friends Like These'
'Dad's Beauty in Colour and Love'