A Poem

I'm not sure if I've posted this before, but if so, here it is again.

Strolling

Behind the park, the sea was still – like glass –
and quiet – just a ripply murmur where gentle waves met the shore.
Below the wooden pier the posts seemed elongated,
then their reflections shimmered, for the breeze stirred the water
as I strolled by.

To the right, the wooded shores of Arne loomed dark against the sky and sea.
Far ahead the massive ferry liner soared over tiny boats
as it slid slowly and silently into its docking place,
two small spirals of grey smoke climbing from its funnels,
as I strolled on.

The sand was polka-dotted with prints of people, dogs and birds,
yet empty of life until, around the corner, one brave sunbather stretched out.
The line of beach huts closed and shuttered, except for one
which an old man painstakingly painted bright green before the winter,
as I strolled on by.