Bruce Clark Dick
Who is the girl, running on the black sands,
Loose limbed, alone, and free.
Barefooted, leaving youthful prints,
Long washed away by the sea.
Who clambers up, the aged smooth rocks?
Wind blowing through her hair,
And sits, and stares, in a far off dream,
At the sea, and wonders, 'what's out there?'
Who explores the pools, for fish and crabs,
Each nook and cranny, she spies.
The fleeting, furtive, moves of dabs,
Does not escape her eyes.
She lays herself down, head propped between her hands,
And marvels at the harebells, rising up among the sands.
Their bells a hue, of summer blue, on stems so slender and fine,
How do they stand, the gales that blow, on these black sands of mine?
On restless nights, when sleep won't come, and thoughts spin round her head,
She thinks of those, bright far off days, of summers long since dead.
Who is the girl that runs the black sands, along the margin of the sea?
She still is there, wind in her hair, for that young girl was me.