Dear Anne

 

I wander along the shore

My feet sinking into the cool, soft sand

The morning sun peaks over the horizon

Staining the sky and the land

The morning is silent

Just the rhythmic beating of waves upon the coast

The soft whooshing reminding me

That it is this time of day I love the most

I ponder as I amble

Leaving behind a pitter patter of footprints

Lined by a mosaic of seashells

Of varying shapes and tints

Suddenly I startle as I see something odd

Among that mosaic I saw a gleam

An old bottle, buried in the sand

Sparkling from the early morning light beam

I gently dig around it

And pick it up with care

Inside I see a parchment

Should I pull it out? Do I dare?

I tip the bottle on the sand

Dumping out ages of grime and muck

Upending all it’s secrets

As it finally comes unstuck

A parchment ages old

Soft from weather and age

I unfurl it carefully

And look at the worn, torn page

I see a swirling script

The words of a broken-hearted man

Writing to his beloved

“Dear Anne....”

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