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I gaze across, how many?
Billions of shells touched by Midas.
To give me this Carpet of gold.
In A single breath of wind, it becomes new.

The black gullís harsh cry signals my intrusion
Yet white horses rush to greet me
Then fade at the last hurdle
To lap at my feet

Ozone snapped with saline
Lifts my senses
Driftwood sculptures turned on a watery lathe
Demand my attention

Basalt, granite polished by endless devotion
Caressed in erosion.
In there pools orphaned creatures stare back at me.
Waiting for the mother to return, as she will.

Clouds come to meet their maker
As sunlight filters through
In this most ancient cathedral
I stand on the edge of creation.




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by Gordon





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