Across from Dover, the Dunes
The dunes here don’t hurry.
They lean, slow‑boned,
against the long breath
of the North Sea.
Grass whispers sideways,
never quite deciding
which wind to trust.
A gull draws a white stitch
through the sky,
then lets the thread fall slack.
Far off, a freighter
moves along
a thought
someone forgot to finish.
I walk the sand‑ridges
that rise and collapse
like old arguments
between land and water.
Nothing chases me,
save thoughts
performing delights.
Only the wind,
its long grammar,
sifting salt‑worn sand.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 5th, 2026 05:09
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: Doggerel Dave
- In collections: throwback.
Offline)
Comments2
Great descriptive piece my friend
"old arguments between land and water" - A beach personified. I felt that.
Place doesn't happen to be Dunkirk, does it?
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