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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, heís 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 shouldnít be allowed.



The passer-by has long gone, so he didnít see the bottle that was delivered to the
sand,

He didnít pick it up, he didnít 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 youíve picked up today, by darkfall you
are dead.



The sea breeze held the seagullís 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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