Feet

on the tide line, the change line,
the line that marks the difference
between this, and that, between
here, and there, the moving
and mobile, golden and
solid

here we crunch shells, there
we drown in depths too
deep to see; sun casts
long shadows of the hour,
rock pools limpid, clear,
seaweed fingers wave lazy
grass submerged

families on the shore pack-up
their children and stuff, head
home as the breeze freshens
and white clouds puff overhead

beyond the flat levels the
coast curves golden
green to the sea, their
feet stop at the line between

that and this, thinking, quiet
awaiting the dateline
day to right where they can
breathe in cool silence as the water lapps their feet

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