The Myth of Zephyrs

Soft, we whisper, like the sweet sea grasses,
hushed words prickling like sand on the wind.
And the rush of the ocean beats
its rhythms on the shore,
matching the shiffle-shuffle of our feet
as they patter out our hearts.

We creep out on tiptoe, slipping in the sand.
Tumbling down the twilight dunes, your
Hand holds mine and my fingers
Entwine with yours.
The fingers of the breeze, its salty lips that linger,
They whistle around us, slowly.

In the midst of the bay, with its moon-white beach,
We stagger and fall by the gushing sea,
Sibilant words puddle near our feet
As we sit and we huddle
And graze noses as lips meet
Beneath the solemn, navy sky.

So here we lie, caught in the middle,
Of the creamy shores and the tidal riddle,
A secret in the sands as we lie side by side,
Knowing this is it until the next summertime.
Then we’ll whisper just three words:
‘I will wait,’
And then to scamper home
alone again: the myth between the zephyrs,
soft, as they whisper, like sweet, sea grasses.