Grey dawn on empty marshes

And the plaintive cry of a lone bird pierces the chill.

The mist whisps upwards to a rising sun,

Smelling of seaweed

And licked lips are as salty as tears.

Hands deep in my pockets

I turn my back upon the whispering sea

And think longingly of warm things:

Of Toast, and Hot Cocoa;

Of Cuddles, of Kisses

Of Warm Embraces;

Of Life itself.

With feet cold and wet I take the first step.

I have a long way to go!

Copyright H. St.Vincent Beechey. 1988.