The piece of driftwood washed up on the beach
It set off questions in my mind of places far away
The years it could have crossed the world
The oceans it had inhabited
And how long it had been left to float astray

And now, to lie on golden sand and dry in mid-day heat
To warm under a blazing sun for many years to come
To please the many tourists
That stroll along the shore
Not floating around the oceans, not travelling anymore

by Phil Soar

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