Driftwood

I’ve been homeless a few times in my life but this night then foward unto dawn stands out in my memory.

Driftwood

I was content, drifting happily. Head propped up against my bag, curled up inside of a bunker hollowed by the manic hands of children, those children who exalt in the exploits of the day’s glory. I was content until the metal detectorists came. Sifting, beeping, scratching in perfunctory analysis of consistent dross. Peripheral dimension reveals beacons of haphazard headlamps. Caught at unawares, concerned it might be security looking to clear away the riff raff, I stand and dust the sand from faded, blue jeans and like driftwood I move on. Straying sidewards in a zig zag collision course with blurs and outlines, people with a destination. It’s another tempo, a slalom with moving posts.
The sunrise is ridiculously beautiful, a cacophony of the hues unlikely to be associated with the sun in man’s marred view. Regal depth with zesty citrus promise, marmalade and jam reflected onto the light blue of the ocean’s twinkling brilliance. Perhaps the Sun’s faceted radiance is but the vision I alone see, uniquely me.