Tide Poem by JJ Evendon

Footprints pock mark a deserted beach
seized by sea's merciless sweep
never to return.
Gulls strut like matadors dicing the rhythmic surf
looking for easy pickings,
finding some, finding none.
Driftwood left by a high tide,
caused by moon's unseen force and not man.
We are just passengers
on a vessel orbiting the sun.
Caring little, understanding less.
The tide goes out
later to return
only to start again.
But where are we going?