Dark Beaches

It is not the stuff of postcards.
Cold. Dark. A bitter wind.
The beach covered with broken things
and shards of shells that cut your bare feet.

It is not a place for tourists,
and that, for today, is it’s appeal.
A place of truth, of wildness,
of gloriously broken things
and no pretense of perfection.

You fit right in.
And settle on the sand, still,
content to be among your peers.
You listen to God whispering in the wind
and sing a cracked duet
no one will ever hear.

About this poem

The picture is from Cape Cod, in March. A beautiful time, perhaps the most beautiful time, to visit.

Tom