Winter branches sway. Glimpses of blue-gold sunkissed sky, gently swept aside.

Evening light recalls a summer night, alone with you on Scarborough Beach. Young, without a care... we decided we'd sleep there, under a blanket of stars and January moon. West Coast Highway a distant hum beyond the dunes.

Somewhere tonight its that night still. We're asleep on the sand and the ocean is still and I still love you... in the fading light and the millions upon millions of tiny spaces between leaves.

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This is okay but I am left with the feeling that it is incomplete. I need a reason to care. I need to be introduced to these people. Otherwise I don't care. Give them names and personalities.

Thank you for taking the time to comment, Stephanie. 

It feels incomplete to me also. As with a love that could have been everything, but instead is left to blow away like so many grains of sand on a beach, the poem is all it was ever going to be and no more.


Sometimes the most beautiful poems are incomplete, for they startle the incompleteness in us . . . and smash the falseness of the ego that adorns itself, ever more, not as the centre of the universe, but as the universe itself. Elegant poem Lee Wilde.

Thank you, Kerryn.  "...for they startle the incompleteness in us.."  Perfectly put.


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