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The Passer-By
by
Rusty Broadspear
The pebbles on the beach, so recently
washed by the sea, are glistening.
The gull on the rock, just below the cliff top, his head is cocked, he’s
listening..
The sun is high and the cotton wool clouds are lazily drifting by,
The beach is host to an old man with a hat, a lonely passer-by.
The grass on the dunes is lying down, so very sad, so mournfully still,
A few beach huts on parade, waiting for their owners, foster a feverish chill.
A few scraps of litter like fallen broken pieces from a passing cloud
Add colour to the dunes, add an interest, but it shouldn’t be allowed.
The passer-by has long gone, so he didn’t see the bottle that was delivered to
the
sand,
He didn’t pick it up, he didn’t unscrew the top and hold the message in his
hand.
If he had, then his mind would have exploded, as his shaking hand held it, as he
read,
Do not pray, for you have no say to what you’ve picked up today, by darkfall you
are dead.
The sea breeze held the seagull’s wings as he floated low over the sea.
It was time to go, as the sun dipped low, the future is not ours, or for you, to
see.
The passer-by had no right to reply, he had to lay down and die,
And as I watched, I was filled with glory, as I saw his spirit fly.
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