There's unusual flotsam on this beach,
A place where before only the foam of the surf
Or the sandaled feet of tourists would tread,
Now every day is filled with apprehension and dread,
Of what will be washed up
To be mingled in the golden sand,
Perhaps a discarded life vest,
Perhaps a small child’s hand,
This vivid snapshot of tragedy
Now the debris of desperation and grief,
To momentarily prick our conscience,
A reminder and remnants of life so brief.
Diane Scantlebury
