Coastal ways make running paint,
A mural smeared through breaking pace,
The land and sea all fall to gorgeous colour,
Holding but a semblance of their passing form.

And here as colours run, we meet,
Pure strangers who we seek to be,
With some kind of passing form in sight,
A light for them. A colour and a love.

A poem as I feel obliged,
To discipline myself to strength,
To give a nod to all the joys I've had when pushing through,

To uphold the chain through echoed time,
To craft a banner that I dare to hold out too,
A poem now just broken through the tide.

Walking in new worlds,
I see through the eyes of another,
They paint a land in an echo of creation,
In a moment their mind seems to shadow the Almighty,
And He is glorified in the creative act.