Foam edged scallops pattern the sand
As the sea comes to meet the land,
Not with a rush of waves on the lee
But quiet and silver...so restful to see.
The logs are cradled, approaching the shore,
And rocked very gently...where they join some more
That have lain in seaweed...bleached by the sun
Where seagulls strut, and little crabs run.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem