I sat on the shore looking at the waves, roaring, rolling, gushing, bubbling as they washed the shore and foamed away. Wind blew past the ferns and created a strange whistling. Sun had set and the light house light had lit up, but it wasn't dark yet. I could see a couple of seagulls soaring across the sky, making circles, then disappearing behind the fern trees. Few people came to this part of the beach, so I was by myself. Perfect for writing poetry. I looked at the horizon. The sea looked calm over there. The sailboats had set out for their evening voyage. Fishermen here were the horsemen who rode the waves on high tide. I stood up and began walking. Barefoot on sand. It was a strange feeling. The sand felt as alive as the sea, always moving, creating designs on the shore, then rubbing them off, painting a new pattern, like a poet dismissing a new line of his poem as an afterthought. In the dusking sky a star or two started peeping up. I walked near the sea and let the waves wash past my ankles. The whistle of ferns, the laugh of winds, the countless waves, the brown black white and cream coloured sea shells, the flashes of the light house could make anyone thoughtful. The mysteries of the earth, the stars, the greatness of universe, intricacies of life and intimacies of love could crowd your thought.
But I was here for a job. I was here to search for poetry and all I heard was a song.
Every poem was meant to be a song, whispered the ferns. I wondered how they knew...
