Winter sun sets low these days
painting the steel blue water
in flames of gold.
I see a young woman on my walk
sitting at an old wooden desk on the damp sand,
writing in a big book as if the cold
means nothing to her fast-moving hand.
A white painted door stands propped up
at the edge of the windswept beach
as if waiting for the knock that might change the world.
In time, I come across a small brown wren
sitting upon a wall of stone,
its bright eyes turned towards the setting sun
and in that moment, I understood
some of the words the language of beauty
has been speaking all along.