In Wales

In Wales
there is a coast against which waves
do not break
but softly braid the quiet shore.

Eyes tender, clear enough
that when they arrive

pebbles rise, float,
slowly
fall
with a smile of sunlight.
As though angled through the prism
of a girl’s first love.

In Wales
there is a coast that remembers
the smell of laughter,
rising,
floating, slowly
falling.

Tides.
The waves suddenly foam.
Braids come undone
in anger,
as if to say,

I am not your calm,
I am not
your sunset poetry.

I canter back
until the waves lower their white arching eyebrows.
Their hard glint subsides, the shoreline
curls back behind a sandy ear
and the waters settle
as if satisfied.

Pebbles rise, float,
slowly
fall
with a smile of moonlight.

In Wales
there is a coast against which waves
break
and braid the quiet shore.

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