Beaches. Most people think of beaches, All sand. Sea-lapping shore, But there are beaches everywhere With something more in store. The craggy, rocky headland, Is strewn with granite slabs, So waves can crash and feel no pain, When chasing hermit crabs. The flat rocks have striata Like so much flaky paste, Where salt-water lettuce can take root, And crawling things make haste. So too, the rounded pebbles, All tossed by roilling surf. Millions of them, laying deep Untouched by grassy turf. They come in different sizes, All jostling, one, two, three. Painful as you tread them down, As you approach the sea. Beaches that have sandy bays, Are more what folk might think, If you ask which they do prefer, They plump for sand in a blink. But sand’s a strange commodity, You think it’s soft like silk, But if you take a sample, It can turn, like tainted milk. Some Spanish beaches have the look Of peachy sand, so bright, But silica is textural, Not so much a delight. And gravel also tends to be Upon the coastal bay, But out in tropical beaches, It’s like powder all the way. Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. July, 2014 . Sent from my iPad


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