The tide may be gone,
But it leaves it's mark.
The water has receeded,
But the sand remembers.
A thin, pale line, left behind,
An echo of the sea's white foam.
Simple outline, stretching for miles,
Marking where water once touched,
And will soon reach and dissolve again.
It is a ghost of the water's edge.
The white line the tide forgot,
The pale, thin line left behind,
A little reminder,
"I may be gone, for now,
But shall return,
To reclaim the etching I left behind,
The ghost of my old touch."