cold sea unwelcome for swimmers.
Snow dances to its doom in the Channel
a rare visitor to golden sand.
But it's more alluring, each flake
possessing an unique shape of its own
as I wander to the sea's edge alone.
The Channel's roar is muted,
snow melting as it kisses the sea
a reminder we are a mere beat
of the vast, frightening cosmic heart.
I wonder if ghosts drift on this bay,
beautiful in snow or a sky of blue,
in a bitter breeze I admire the view.