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truth

by carolyn conkling

A pensive child alone upon the beach,
A golden body shadowing its wake,
Faded khaki shorts and sun-bleached hair,
And eager eyes still searching for belief;
A span of clear blue sky above his head
Through which a wisp of whiteness winds its wqy,
The soothing motion of a rippling sea
Washing salty foam upon the sand.
A million tiny stones, not rough, but strangely smooth-
A world all his ... and his alone

A priceless shell clenched tightly in a fist
Rinsed clean by briney waves of ages past;
A shell of purest white and etched with pink
With just a hint of gold around the rim;
A jewel-with gleaming lights from sun o'erhead
Saved from burial of another thousand years.
This is beauty to the child's eye
A gift to all the world, for one small boy to find.

A wriggling crab digs hollows in the mud,
A gull who reigns supreme in his own sphere,
A gentle wind brings forth a warming chill
The blades of grass in rhythm with the breeze.

The evenness of the plain broken once or twice
.By castles crumbled under weight of careless feet;
Driftwood, undiscovered by those who treasure it,
Unappealing ... and discarded by the child.
Now and then a puzzled scowl may cloud his face;
A n empty beer can taints the beauty of his scene,
'Charcoal, he fingers and quickly flips aside,
A trail of greyish dust smears across his palm.

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