By Christopher Ray
I watch as she turns the wheel and exits. The driveway grinds like a wave sucking a shingle beach. Pebbles tumbling, rolling; drawn back into the edge of the surf.
I register the sound. I learn every approach and retreat.
The marching crunch and thrust of the postman.
The skip and scrape of the newspaper girl.
The leaden trudge, drag and flop of the catalogue guy
The light, grating shuffle and ring of evangelists.
Her car sweeping in would be a surging roller, surf grinding shingle; frothing to its limit.
But I know now it’s the wave that will never break.
I was, on that driveway ! The imagery so good, I heard every piece of gravel and understood every visitor. I still hope for froth on the wave!