The dunes behind the foreshore,
Reveal the recent storms, in buried grass,
A fingerprint of the strength released.
Windswept, patterned, growing with time,
But changing, slowly at leisure,
Structured only by the threads beneath.

If you wait - search and find,
There is no pattern. Stand aside
and watch from a distance. You will see.
Reflections need an object - without, they are nothing.
The mill turned for many years, but it did not know.
The mill has no identity.

Chaotic landscape, growing in the mud
held together by the roots. Dried out trees
older than the seagulls, older than the seaweed.
Never changing, always changing.
Draped with the threads of the kelp.
The carcasses and stench of the estuary.

 

If you wait - search and find,
There is no structure. The cycle of eternity
allows us brief existence. A tremor in the universe,
waiting out our seventy years
in hope. Many have been fooled,
But then a mirage fools from a distance.

 

The random structure of barrier rocks,
Separates nature from man, traps within its walls.
Twenty minutes to the pinball machines
and modern life. The rocks mark the end of the threads.
Ten, fifty, thousands of years.
They will last, maybe longer than the sea.

 

What threads run through these changes?
What reason lies behind,..ahead?
Why does it not all fall apart, at every chance?
Or is this the route anyway?
The slow, inevitable decay towards entropy.
We see only a glimpse...

..and call it life.

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