The Quiet Shore

I walked where fog met ocean's sigh,
a gauze of grey beneath the sky,
and every step upon the sand
felt softer than I could withstand.

The tide was low, the world was hushed,
no gulls, no shouts, just water brushed
against the stones in steady beat—
a lullaby beneath my feet.

Each pebble, smooth from years unseen,
wore time like velvet, cold and clean.
I knelt and sifted through the shore,
as if my hands might ask for more
than just the shape, the polished face—
but some deep hush, some kind of grace.

Some glistened black like twilight’s eye,
some blue as smoke in evening’s cry.
A few were marbled, swirled in white—
small planets resting in the light.
And though the sky was ghosted, pale,
the sea still sang a silver tale.

The air was thick with salt and pine,
and something in-between, divine.
The scent of driftwood, kelp, and mist,
like nature leaned in close and kissed
my every thought until it passed,
and nothing lingered but the vast.

I traced the arc of shells and glass
that tides had scattered as they passed.
Some broken, some complete and round,
like offerings placed upon the ground.
And all the while, the fog remained—
a veil that asked not to explain.

No need for meaning, none for speed,
just breath and silence, salt and seed.
The world behind me fell away,
replaced by stone and sea and grey.
And in that quiet, soft and wide,
I let the turning earth decide.

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