In the geometry
Of blue horizons
And skirting beach
I find a boat
Paint peeling
And silvery
In the coral sand.
In the end
All things bleach:
The wooden seat,
The coral shingle,
The old man
Whose facial stubble
Grows white
As the particulate
He stands upon.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
distilledvoice 
Lovely poem. We are time’s inexorable victims, but it can be a beautiful process if we surrender to it.
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indeed, perhaps the only way
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