The Beachcomber

A Prose Poem

With naked feet you scour the beach. The rock pools. Seeking the tiny shells and stones, worn smooth by the ocean.

The gentle sea breeze catches your hair and lays dark strands across your face. You brush them away with the hand that once caressed his cheek, fingertips that traced the contours of his lips.

The sun warms your skin, that cinnamon cloak that envelops your body, while you search alone for something to remind you of then.

Your feet sink gently into the sand before the prints left behind fill with water. In a moment they are gone, erasing any evidence that you were there.

Sand does not remember for long, unlike you who can still recall that night when the snow crept up to the door and you held each other beneath the covers.

Hello! Thanks for getting this far, it means so much. I’m fuelled by fresh air and coffee. While fresh air is free (for now) coffee isn’t. So, if you like what I do, please consider buying me a cup.