Low tide, I lower myself onto the damp sand,
Plucking sea shells as I see fit,
An absentminded enjoyment I got from it.
A light-hearted pass time,
Head buried in the sand,
Plucking each meticulously into my hands.
When there was,
A silent rumble one does not hear,
But one feels.
The collected seashells I did set free.
A chill,
Not unlike fear,
I felt, as I rose to my feet.
Beholding,
My eyes fixed on the horizon,
I could not have imagined,
Something such as this.
In numb horror,
I came to realise,
It was not low tide.
Oh woe is me.
Not low tide, no,
The tide had receeded,
Rolled back, out to sea.
And on the horizon,
A silent wave,
Blocked out the sun.
Barrelling toward me,
Stopping my fun.
Oh where, oh where, where could I run.