The air is sharp this morning
'Tis Sunday and the sun-drenched town still
sleeps.
The chink of bottles heralds the early morning
milk.
Noisily a blackbird hammers his breakfast
snail.
Cobwebs brush the cheek.
The sun-lit sea scintillates.
Lone lobster-fisher hauls his pots.
Overhead a solitary gull wheels and watches.
Worm casts make a myriad miniature mountains
'midst the moss,
Shells and variegated pebbles shimmer in the sun.
Only man's handiwork offends,
Plastic buckets, bottles,
Marine bric-a-brac from the morning tide.
A crab scuttles from a nearby rock
And dew still glistens on the waving grass.
Douglas R. Tallet, September 1971