A holiday can rehearse the last day of your life.
Like it would be, if you knew it was.
A beach break is best.
You can look into the distance
where there's nothing much to see.
I think that's just how I would look.

There is that world of sand, structured or loose,
bathed in its own beauty;
a world you have not made.
It blows into your heart
-walls and moats, tower and flag-
with the voices of unseen gulls.

Sure as afternoon heat melts snowmen 
for ice cream in sand there's no rescue.
Denizens of the deep are keeping hid
beyond ephemeral foam 
so like your thoughts, on a day like today,
empassioned for certainties like these.

Yet consider seaweed green and driftwood grey
laid out by the tide as far as can be seen.
For your purpose, infinite: you won't reach an end.
At each step you could drop to your knees
for manifold hidden treasures, wonders
of all the universe, by chance now yours.

For instances of all that's fragile 
firmly holding a place in things that live;
every curve afforded by those that move;
gorgeous hues enough to madden artists
gracing mere grains of sand;
there'll never be days enough for study.

Whoa! A broad-brimmed hat spirited away 
by a curl of warmed breeze with big ideas.
A giant tip-toes into the wavelets
-that's you that is- rescue the seaworthy raft.
When striking out as a lady's hero
life is steps taken, not scenes mused upon.