POETRY BOOK THREE: Your Writing Hand

Scattered on the edge of land,
Conch and clam and seaweed strand;
Litter left upon the shore,
Vacant shells are used no more;
Mother Nature’s refuse heap,
They’re on the beach for Man to keep.

The crashing waves pull back the sand,
They sweep the beach with foamy hand;
Then the quiet flowing back
Leaves the shells along its track;
Defeats the purpose He had planned
For the edges of the land.

|| My Poetry ||