It's Still Life

No Matter Your Stones

No one tells you that Brighton beach isn’t sand, that it’s pebbled and rolls underfoot. If wading in surf is your pleasure, well, those pebbles will batter your toes and bruise your shins. The weak ankled are easy to spot, their arms flaying the air for balance, their knees wobbling about. And do buy some chips on the pier, it’s a tradition you see, to eat them under a brolly so the seagulls can’t see. But death stakes these beaches with broken hearts thrown off the pier. Those who stroll in above their heads. Into the current. The tide and tow, and the unseen below. Those Brighton days, they’re a hallucination.

Summer rains on seas
Falling on an unseen world
No matter, your stones

Written for dVerse Poets “Sun, Sand, Storms, and Celebrations: Summer Ekphrastic”, image by Edward Henry Potthast, Summer Day, Brighton Beach, and GoDogGo Haibun Wednesday: Death.  ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter