He blamed the wind
and the salt-sea spray,
he blamed the gulls that wailed all day.
He blamed the rain
and the slate grey sky,
breakers breaking on the black cliff side,
He blamed the wall,
the high sea wall,
and every pebble on the shingle shore.
He blamed the storm,
as he watched it break,
and felt the sleeper within him wake.
Then he blamed no more
the quiet shore,
nor gold washed up from the ocean floor.
Words on a page
for his sorrow and pain,
the beachcomber never does walk in vain.