Winter on the beach

Ina

Cold to the bone and our faces sculptured
By drifting sand as we walk ( one way or another,
We shall be having the wind in our backs later on.)

Silent, silently threading unknown ground,
heading for a point of return:
Here, all seems simple enough. We do this far from home

Because the reward will be warmth and shelter in the end.
Because we feel alive in the death of this season.
Under our feet the sand is frozen cement.

Silent. Silence is following us back to the car,
an uninvited guest, stepping in. Becomes our friend.
Your sculptured face defrosting as we drive.

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