Trees straining at their roots while plastic bags wrap around their branches.
Like stringless kites, lost without tears, discarded without thought.
Leaves race with the wind, out paced and out smarted,
they gather in corners, in little whirlwinds, mixed with litter,
dirt and dust rising in the air.
Above the cliffs, seagulls, stationary on the wind.
Riding on the up-currents, deflected by the storm.
They hover like hang-gliders high above the rocks below,
wings rigid and unfurled, aileronic feathers twitching.
Holding their positions while the sea crashes beneath,
white foam, whipped up by the sea, mounts the sky.
The rocks think they’re immortal but the sea knows the truth,
as it wears them away, a little every day, or year or maybe much more.
Until they are numbered with the grains of sand on the shore.
The wind abates, the sea dies down,
whirlwinds cease, the litter flutters down.
Torn carrier bags, limp and torn on empty branches,
hang like the tattered flags of a defeated regime.
The trees stand upright once again, saluting the new found sun.
And peace returns for at least another day.