Thrown up on the tide

The storm petrels knew that the night would bring menace,
Menace to the men on the sea and the shore,
Screaming and weaving an aerial sideshow, like black hooded Halloween
children knocking the door,
Checking the watches and clocks of reality,
The slow sands of time trickle down to the shore
Down to the tide line where the seashells are scattered,
And the melting sand castles fight battles no more,
The church bell chimed once for the body on the shoreline,
White water menace giving birth to her offspring,
Cold wet and stillborn, a miscarriage of innocence,
Taken from those who sometimes upset her,
The sand covered fingers gripping no more,
Nor take the hand of a broken young father,
Face wet with tears as he closes the door,
Only the cries of the storm petrels mocking,
Sliced through the autumn time morning
As the watery sun warms up the bay.