The treasure

The sand was blowing over land,
my eyes not ready for this rage
saw nothing but a mist, as then
a man appeared, not sure his age,
his pace was tired, old and slow.
Near the swash mark he was searching,
the tide was low and water gone.
I approached him while I wondered
what had brought him here in storm.
He looked at me and said my father’s name
before he went away and just walked on.
They had been friends and when
he let some nice wood go to drift away,
I knew the reason why he came:
He had to find himself again.

Comments on: "The treasure" (8)

  1. What a great last line. The whole thing is gently moving

  2. Touchingly perfect Ina…

  3. Well concieved and nicely written.

  4. Lamenting rhythm…

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