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.