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The Tide Is High

White waves curl around me,

Spraying me with foam,

As the gulls overhead take leave and flee,

The waves I call my own.

The ocean roars and sighs,

Like a lion deep in sleep,

When you least expect the waves to rise,

Then up and up they creep.

Ripples turn to crested waves,

Pale white foam on each,

At high tide you must be brave,

For help is out of reach.

by Merete Strange (11)


Competition - Postcard Poets

Copyright remains with the author.