Low Tide





The fog curls aroud the cliffs Like the fingers of a thief around your thick wallet.

All is silent, eerily silent

As if the ocean has inhaled and

Been caught holding its breath.

A seagull sits on a rock not far from shore

Statuelike, it rests waiting

For sunlight to break through the overcast.

Suddenly a breeze kisses

The calm water, the sun pushes through the fog

And the first breaker of the incoming tide

Tumbles against the bird's perch.

Before the silence is broken by the water's crash,

Before the rock is covered by white spray,

The statue comes alive leaping

Into the bright sky

Complaining bitterly of the disturbance.

By Ira L. White
All Rights Reserved
Copying, reprinting or distribution of this poem, in whole or in part, is prohibited without written permission from the author.

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