Rolling Wave

Waves roll in a never-ending drum,
sometimes clear sometimes with flotsam
but always landing on sand
	 	           that pumice stone
		                    that ochre sieve
and for an hour I gallivant,
with thunder in my ears, 
so loud all thoughts disappear;
grit gathers between my toes
	         	    which scrape and rub
	         	    and sift and clean
so when I leave, I glow;
a layer lighter,
different - brighter! -
a me that’s not
but still is somewhat.

Posted for Writing 201 (Poetry) day 9 prompt: Landscape.
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