Morning comes when the night is still at sea.
shafts of dawn creep
through the breaker's mist.
The sea a soft song of rest.
Long legged birds
strut with certain purpose
and busy their beaks
with the breakfast chore.
Feathers, seaweed and shells
cover the sand.
Last night's tracks
now ripples in the sand.
Tree crowns flimsy dams
against the light of a new day.
Night retreats
in a mystery of fog and breeze.
A day begins.
Two sets of footprints,
a trail for the day.
They stop and face the ocean,
then the dawn
and shuffle in a hesitation of awe.
Fingers print marks
in the sand
where a skipper
stone has been grabbed.
All this
the sand won't remember.
The makers of sand prints will.
Shrouded in this golden haze
is the shrine of Saint Joan.
It is a place
of peace and promise.
A place of sand and salt
and feathers and shells.
A pew for contemplation.
And when the day
departs there will be altar gifts.
Shells and feathers,
the trophies of the day use
frog shaped driftwood
as a fitting center piece.
And when the day's end sun
is yellow on the green of costal trees
let the light show in the sky begin.
Every cloud a garish pink
softened with gold.
Then a royal purple
celebrates Saint Joan.
A golden and red carpet
spread on the water
invites a walk to the west.
This is the shrine of Saint Joan.
A day of sand and sun
is placed on the altar.
Petals, the feathers of the rose,
make the offering complete.
The day is celebrated
with wine and prawns.
A communion
to this place of peace and promise.