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ON WILLOUGHBY BEACH

 

By Quentin Smith

 

 

Harsh winds whip

 

Across a barren shore,

 

Frozen hands reach

 

Into nothing,

 

Embracing naught

 

But a desolate land

 

And the empty sea . . .

 

 

 

Let nothing be said

 

For there is nothing to say

 

Only a lone figure

 

Stumbling in the cold sands

 

And falling silently

 

Among the waves,

 

Lapping softly

 

Against something

 

Forlorn and forgotten.

 

 

Written 1970

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