Hands slipping from cotton and leather
sliding along old knotted wood
creaking in the breeze.
The ocean stands in the distance
grey, impending, but oddly silent;
its violent waves falling on deaf shores.
The seabirds are little more than kites, hanging there above;
even their fluttering feathers and open beaks
lack their usual light hearted revelry.
This happy place is now more like a fortress, perched on the edge of the world
and I am small, standing at its gates
the cold air stinging my narrowed eyes,
and the water beginning to lap at my feet.
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