Fire Island

FIRE ISLAND

Walking the dunes,
Picking up stones,
Seashells are not my forte’.

Those I see are pretty, but, common
Dear Lessie reminds me.
She sees shells I don’t.
The artist’s eye.
I hie a blind eye.

Stones, iridescent white,
Pink marbled, wet
Revealing marbling hidden by God
As a prize to be revealed
To those given to see with His eyes.

Waves crash to shore on this wintry clear day.
Row upon row thundering into each other,
White caps as fingers reaching to man and screaming,
“Save Me! Save Me! Preserve the Beach! I’m tolling away in the pollution of man.”

Douglas Noel