Seaside

Rocky ground
by the seaside.
We're here again.
Ankles straining dangerously,
as our feet wobble along.

What an odd pair we must look,
like penguins, like crows.

Traversing an endless bed
of stony eggs.
Here lie the giants of old;
their graves long since emptied,
but their gaze lingers,
we're reminded by the cold, salty air.

What secrets could these stones hatch,
did the kings of old know?
Did secrets old as time seep into their bones
as they were laid to rest?

I would not need much of it,
as we hobble along;
just a whisper would do.

Enough for a Tuesday,
not for the ages,
would still mean the world to me.

Might a cold gust carry
a word of advice from sea?
Might a cold stone jolt
a little idea into me?

Kings of old, are you laughing?
A word of advice would be good now,

For an odd pair to find
their footing.

Notes ▼

Written for "The Writer's Cramp"  - winner!
Lines: 31

Prompt: use the words Tuesday, seaside, eggs. One genre must be friendship.