Hazy beams reflect on glass,
Silver light tiptoes gently,
Casting shadows reaching out
Touching sand, silently.
Lingering fingers meet as one
Folding on waves, caressing,
We watch and realise it is
We who are trespassing,
There is no place for footsteps
That echo in the misty gloom,
Morning comes, and tranquillity
Will all be gone too soon.
Photo: morning in March 2018
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