Waves strain to be there first,
Their hold breaks and splinters.
Frothy white droplets
Are slammed on the sand
To regroup and start again.
Their rhythm is foiled
By rocks; in fury they lash
them with spray and ships.
The patterns of our memory are shaped by vivid moments which we can recall like photographs even though the surrounding events are lost to us. Photographs trap moments of time and in a different way so do haiku. Both can be distillations of truth;both fascinate me.
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