The Grand Design

Glistening surface, once smooth as glass

Ripples and whirls in the shifting wind

Wave upon crashing wave erases the past

Lines, mounds, and holes until they blend

 

Grains of rock and coral limestone

Imprinted by webs, hoofs, and toes

Seaweed, shell, driftwood, and bone

And other marks only the Creator knows

 

Sea in foam and air, zesty taste of brine

Sunlight shimmers from water to sand

Illuminating intricacies of His grand design

Shadows dance and stretch upon the land

 

Trails, trickles, and pools of water traces

Scribbles we mark upon the timeless sand

A work of artistry upon these open spaces

Spilled from the pen of the Great hand

 

These simple etchings of perpetual time

Are they messages across the great divide

Or some universal picturesque rhyme?

Or is it nothing more than time and tide?

 

An entry for One Shot Wednesday.

51 thoughts on “The Grand Design

  1. Outstanding photographs and poetry. “These simple etchings of perpetual time…” What a great line and the words and images work very well together.

  2. oh i think it is much more the hands that set those tides in motion…love the natural art on the beach as well…i was right there suzicate…great one shot!

  3. FAB-U-LOUS!

    Both your words and photo imagery.

    This part really touched me….

    “A work of artistry upon these open spaces

    Spilled from the pen of the Great hand”

    Thanks for sharing, Suzi!

    X

  4. Looks like it does here. I never thought of the Gulf and the Atlantic having similar scapes but in these pictures they do. The lines capture the photos well. Thanks, Gay @beachanny

  5. When I get the time to step in here it’s like walking through a gallery of emotion, in words and in the photography! And love these lines: “These simple etchings of perpetual time Are they messages across the great divide….” ~ Seems like you gave these sands a sense of something truly more special and meaningful… ~Beautifully represented, love this!!! ~April

  6. I read a post the other day about poetry being dead. They need to come and read your poems, and then they’d change their mind.

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