Finely Tuned

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Hold the silence, Speak no more,

The instruments are tuned.

Soon the show will begin,

Upon this windswept shore.

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Plaintive call of gulls in flight,

Lingers on the wind.

Reminds of the pretty sound,

Bow elicits from the strings.

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Fog horn is the Tuba,

Sounding loud and clear.

"Beware, fellow mariner,

There is a vessel near."

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Bell on distant buoy,

Adds staccato note.

Returns to misty silence.

A solitary float.

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Rolling rocks are the drums,

A low, resounding beat.

Waves pound upon the shore,

Cymbals clash, and cease.

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Wind is on the rise,

Sounding sharply sweet.

Silver flute adds its voice,

Symphony replete.

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Susan Brackett

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 (Images taken at Arundel Beach, Kennebunkport, Maine)

Hear the song the ocean sings, the crescendo of her waves.

The sounds, they come together, the song is never the same.

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