Ripples

Crossing the sands,

Walking the Pilgrim Path to Holy Island.

Today, no-one else in sight on the way

Trodden by countless feet in times past,

As the tides rise and fall in daily rhythm.

Crossing the sands,

Guided by the line of sea-washed posts

The sea, reluctant to withdraw,

Turns the sand into a sucking mire

Booby-trapped with sharp shards of shell.

Crossing the sands

Suddenly, ridges ripple and rise underfoot

The power of the waves fossilised

Like a sand artist’s raked patterns.

A firmer place for travellers’ feet,

Solid and dry in a sea of ooze.

And I imagine following the trail

Of some passing sea beast

Squirming on its belly

Towards the island.