We sit on this beach where the red cliffs soar and the
railway dips its toes into the sea, and my mother talks of the sands of time,
and how hers will run out soon, her hourglass stopping silently at deaths door,
and I try to tell her that sand is infinite, and that she still has time, but
she buries my words, and doesn’t want to hear of life, and so, exhausted, I
walk into the symphonic sea, delighting in cadences of calm, for I still have
time, and sands to enjoy, before she wears me down.
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