Ed’s Backyard

Seagulls sound on the distant breeze,
Tides crash on wood of old.
Feel of fresh, of utter ease,
Amongst the dwelling of stories told.

Great many just ‘round the bend,
Caring not where they be.
On a journey without end,
The path they cannot see.

Yet stand here alone,
A presence you shall feel.
All wonders ready to be shown,
Of squids, shells, and eels.

So venture down that lonely walk,
Straight and true along.
Yet here not their talk,
But the earth sings their song.

—Lucas O. Seastrom | E-mail