The slow breakers rolled somberly, sighing of lost love and sailors, up on to the smooth sand dunes, stretching silently for miles, themselves troubled in thought sitting, searching the stars showing in the darkening eastern sky for some answer.
In the deepening twilight, as the reds, oranges, and purples, the sun a grape, are crushed slowly, unyielding, a crab sits on shore.
In his soul, squeezed as sunset, he cries.
The salt water recedes from the dunes. Tears of Earth fill the ocean, the pains, prickling deep, a silent stream.
Bathed in sorrow, the land weeps, wondering when He will end and begin anew all things.
The glow of the last light glints off glass and shells, discarded homes, discarded lives, gleaming bright, a macabre beauty, the detritus of years.
The wind whispers sonorously, settling in for peace, rest; the day finishing, again, labors at an end, temporary death awaiting the morning rebirth, foreshadowing the Day.
The rub of grasses, gentle white noise, a lullaby for the lone crab who jingles alone among creatures past, scrabbling high to see the sun’s rays
longer, still.
Under the pinpricks of distant glories, on a wind-and-sea-swept swath of beach, the crab sees his final sunset.
Thanks to @geekorner for his insight and help.
Isle of Write logo art courtesy of @PegasusPhysics
