At The Salt March Poem by Gert Strydom

When the wind is adrift
not a pebble of sand is stirring
at the salt marsh vapours lift

snipes, sandpipers, curlews run
racing out before you
as brown grey spots in the early morning sun,

the flat stretches of sand glisten shining
waves ripple in gently from the sea
in the distance a ship’s horn is whining

and sea and sky meets at the horizon,
seagulls fill the air in screeching flocks
while some fly on and on until they are gone.