The day seemed to start in an old fashioned way
With arguments, laughter and children at play,
The only thing different and wholly unplanned
Was the man on the beach who drew dreams in the sand,
He looked different some way, as though not of this time
And his pen was a silver topped cane of life’s rhyme,
That drew imaged cartouches and scrolls of the day
Yet the incoming tides washed them slowly away.


From pink dawn to deep twilight he wandered the shore
And he always found places that he could explore,
Where the gold parchment sand was untouched by the sea
Where his writings were safe and his soul would be free,
He would write without nought but the words in his heart
Until all of life’s daydreams had drifted apart,
When the twilight was lost in the heart of night’s shade
And his cane drew Amen’s to the prayers it had made.


The man walked through midnight, his cane dragged behind
As he thought of what dreams in the morning he’d find,
And he looked out to sea with the moon in his eyes
While he thought of the many ways life laughs and cries,
Then he savoured the dawn as it crept into view
While he sorted his dreams from the false to the true,
And he wiped off his cane as he strolled up the beach
For his cane’s written night dreams were not out of reach…